Stupid Yellow Letters
by Magister Equitum
Summary: All the king's horses and all the king's men, Couldn't put [Her] together again, but [He] could. '...The tombstone where she stood was one that had been placed beneath the branches of a tall, old tree.' Ch.27[Taking Chances] Complete.
1. Prologue: Words from the Wise

_**A/N: this is the beginning of a story that has been working in my mind for two years. It's been under constant revision and is constantly changing. This story has a life of its own. This is only the prologue.**_

"_The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: If there is any reaction, both are transformed."_

First impressions are always the ones that count the most. A pretty face or a shy demeanor can make all the difference as to whether you merit a second glance or a simple hello. In high school, first impressions sealed your fate for the next four years. You were instantly cast into one of the two cliques: the accepted or the outcast. In college, they decided what fraternity parties you were invited to. In the real world first impressions make your friends and can sometimes decide your future.

My first meeting with Peyton Huntzberger was one that at the time I would have never assumed would lead to an established girlfriend and home. Dr. Peyton Huntzberger is everything a man could wish for in a woman. Blonde, witty, and gorgeous. The good lady doctor is also smart as hell and what's worse is she knows it. She might even be smarter than my brother, maybe you've heard of him; but don't tell him that. Peyton has what you call a sharp tongue; a sharp tongue that can flay the skin right from the bone. She doesn't boast egos. Hell, she doesn't even stroke egos. Peyton Huntzberger flattens egos. She steamrolls over them and throws them back into your face all the while laughing. She's the perfect poster girl for the new twenty-first century woman. For a five foot tall petite blonde, Peyton intimidates men and just about anyone else who gets in her way. Exuding a confidence that is rivaled by none, she's strong and so sure of her place in the world. She scares people. Well, I take that back. She scares people who don't know her. But to those who do know her, Peyton is caring, compassionate, and fiercely loyal. She's perfect to me. Or rather, perfect _for_ me.

With my first meeting of Peyton, I didn't think much of it. It was not until several weeks later that I even began to entertain the idea of asking her out. That was mainly due to the fact that all we did was butt heads against one another like those mountain rams you see on the National Geographic channel. But if I look back and really think about it, there was something there, something that passed between the two of us. Something that changed not only our lives, but our friends' and families' too. And I have reached the only conclusion that I can think of: I, Don Eppes, was half way in love with Peyton Huntzberger when I first met her that fateful Monday morning.

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"_There's a lot to be said for self-delusionment when it comes to matters of the heart."_

Love is blind. There have never been any truer words. Whoever first wrote them down to be forever remembered was a genius. A true genius. But when it comes to love, we sometimes tend to overanalyze. Instead of listening to our hearts we tend to hear our brains. We sometimes pass over those we are meant for because of fear and logic. You begin to make excuses to get out of seeing him. You have no time at the moment. You're not ready for a serious commitment. He controls you too much. He has a lisp. Any imaginable thing our brains can formulate we use. In short, we tend to ignore what is so often right beneath our noses.

But Don Eppes was not a man that I could ignore. For that matter, he was not a man that wanted to be ignored, nor needed to be ignored. You see, Don Eppes is gorgeous. Tall, well muscled, and blessed with a pair of beautiful brown eyes that express every possible emotion that Shakespeare ever dreamt of. Eppes is also dedicated to just about everything, his job, his friends, his family; it borders on obsession sometimes. To sum it all up, Don Eppes is a highly attractive, single, senior FBI agent. Did I mention that he was single?

But anyway, back to the important things. I tried to ignore him. My brain screamed that he was dangerous and to stay away from him. It wasn't very hard in the beginning. Neither one of us got along very well to begin with. He didn't like when I challenged his authority and I wrongfully saw him as standing for everything I despised about my new job. My heart begged for me to take a chance. I tried to listen to my brain and it worked quite nicely for a while. But Don Eppes would have none of that. He started being _nice_ and then it got to the point where I could no longer hate him or his teammates. I fought as long as I could. He refused to be ignored; he can be very persistent when he sets his mind to something. Heaven help the person who dares to stand in his way when he makes his mind up about something. He refused to be ignored and according to him I had no say in the matter. Meh, Men. What are you going to do with them? And so after a few screaming matches, some broken dishes, European driving lessons on how _not_ to drive a half a million dollar German imported Porsche, and a psychotic Neo-Nazi serial killer, I did it. I, Peyton Huntzberger, listened to my heart and found the man that I was meant to be with. At least I hope it's him or God is going to have some serious explaining to do as to why he would put me through all of this and still not let me have the guy.

_**A/N: This is only the prologue. The first chapter will more than likely be up later today or early tomorrow. R&R as much as you can for a prologue. Constructive criticism is appreciated. :)**_


	2. First Impressions

_A/N: This is the real first chapter. Enjoy._

_Disclaimer: Forgot to put this in the Prologue... The Master of the Horse does not own Numb3rs or any of the orginal characters. If I did then some things would likely change and I would be about a few million dollars richer. I do however own Peyton and her 'field mice' as Colby is want to call them. :)_

"So are we going to go in or not?"

The blonde turned to her right and cast her friend a haughty look behind the rims of her dark designer sunglasses. However, it was highly doubtful that she could see the eye-roll and glare that completed the look from behind the lenses. This became more apparent to her as her friend didn't back down and continued to await an answer. "Eventually."

The two went back to studying the glass doors in front of them as if they were the most fascinating thing to have ever hit the world.

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Don struggled to listen to what the Director was saying. The lack of sleep and working for almost forty eight hours straight was taking its toll on the agent. His hands itched in his pockets, wanting to reach up and rub at his eyes and face. Upon hearing the new leader's name, he snapped back to reality.

"Dr. Huntzberger and her colleagues will be arriving this morning. You and your team are to meet them and show them to their places. Make sure they are comfortable with their new surroundings. They need to be acclimated as soon as possible in order to begin their work. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir."

He made to leave, hoping to find a pot of coffee somewhere.

"Oh, and Eppes?"

"Yes Sir?"

"Treat her right. Be nice and don't tread on her toes. If she tells you something, do it. This branch could really use her. We need her. You need her."

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"You're leaving us?" The man whined in perfect imitation of a five year old that had just had his favorite toy ripped away.

A hand shot out and slender fingers wrapped around the edge to block the elevator doors. "I didn't realize that you were incapable of seating yourself at a conference table without me, Titus."

"Don't be mean to Titus, Peyton. Just because you're ill this morning is no reason to take it out on the rest of us."

"Thank you, Kathryn." The man smiled and smirked at the woman holding up the elevator.

She rolled her eyes at the remarks of her colleagues. "You'll be fine. They're only FBI agents. They're just like us; they just have bigger guns to play with."

"But…"

She removed her hand and waved as their faces disappeared behind the stainless steel. "You'll be fine," She sang as the doors '_binged_' shut.

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"Those the new field mice?" Colby nodded towards the glass walls of the conference room while looking sideways at David.

Megan came to stand next to the both of them. All three of them stood at a cubicle in the bull pen, staring at the man and woman pacing the room, casting glances at the clock and the other agents who scurried around the floor.

"They look friendly enough." Megan sincerely hoped that Colby did not call them 'field mice' to their faces. One of them was a doctor with two PhD's, another had been working in the forensics field for nine years, and the other was close to obtaining his PhD. They were anything but the 'field mice' that they usually found in the labs or the crime scenes.

Both men chorused with a "yeah" and then went back to lounging against the walls of the cubicle. Megan sighed inwardly. She liked her team and considered them part of her family. She trusted them with her life but sometimes it was so hard to be the only female on their team.

"Hey. They here yet?" The three turned as their team leader weaved his through the labyrinth of never ending cubicles, moving to his. Megan noted the dark circles on Don's face and the restlessness in his hands. He needed sleep. They all needed sleep.

"Two of them are. I think there's supposed to be three, but I don't know which one is missing."

"Huh," Laying his jacket over the back of his chair, Don jerked his head towards the people. Without saying a word, he strode toward them, his team falling in behind. The two 'field mice' turned as the door opened and the four of them entered. They studied each other for a moment until Don broke the awkward silence that hung between the two sides. "Uh…Hey. Don Eppes, lead agent. This is my team, Megan Reeves, David Sinclair, and Colby Granger."

In sync they both stepped forward and politely shook hands. "Nice to meet you. I'm Kathryn Nost and this is Titus Hatchett."

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Don studied the two forensic scientists, Kathryn and Titus, sitting across from him. The man was of average height; his female partner was pretty with a heart shaped face and auburn brown hair. From the corner of his eye he sneaked a look at Megan. She was watching the two as well. Gauging people came naturally to her; after all she was a profiler.

"She should be here any minute now. Peyton said she was only running downstairs to grab something for a moment." Don turned to look at Kathryn as she offered an excuse as to the missing whereabouts of the other forensic scientist. She gave him a small smile as she looked sheepishly to her right. Her partner only gave her a look that seemed to say _'what did you expect?'_

"Yeah, well that's some PhD. She can't even keep track of the time." Colby muttered softly under his breath.

Don winced inwardly. Colby had a bad habit of shooting off his mouth. He was pretty sure that insulting their leader was not going to win them any bonus points. Sure enough, both forensics sat up straight at Colby's remark. The glares they shot at him could have stopped a train. '_Oh-boy_'.This was not good.

"Now wait just a minute!"

"Excuse me?"

Both spoke at the same time.

"No. Don't worry about it Kathryn. This FBI agent apparently has issues with solving cases."

Don twisted in his chair and raised his eyes to the figure lounging in between the glass doorway. She was petite; she couldn't be an inch over five feet tall. He gave her a quick look over, sizing her up. Tawny blonde hair was piled high with a black claw clip. Narrowed green eyes set in an oval face glared coolly at Colby; it was apparent where the other two had learned how to glare. She looked to be the same age as his brother. If this was Dr. Peyton Huntzberger she certainly wasn't what he had expected. Dark jeans clung to her hips and were accompanied with a white low neck top underneath a burgundy leather jacket, with a pair of designer sunglasses perched on top of her head. He blinked; were those Doc Martens on her feet? She definitely was not what he had expected. Don had been waiting for an older woman who looked… well, more _scientific_. Certainly, Dr. Huntzberger was not this blonde woman in front of him, who looked as if she was almost straight out of grad school; she reminded him of Amita almost.

He came back to reality as her boots beat out a steady staccato against the tile. Silence washed over the conference room as she calmly made her way to the empty chair at the head of the table. Don sneaked a glance at Colby who at least had the grace to look ashamed.

Dr. Huntzberger dropped a file on the table, watching it land with a dull '_smack_'. "I was downstairs getting that," A finger pointed at the file as if none of them could see the only object on the table. "Fingerprints lifted from the techs at the victim's home matched those of an ex-con by the name of Roberto Salvadoris. Semen samples also matched to his DNA. I suggest you find him and pick him up. Unless you still have a problem with catching major drug peddling murders and rapists."

Her eyebrows rose in a perfect arch as she waited for Colby to answer and then turned her cold green eyes to survey Don and the rest of his agents. When he said nothing, she sat down and smiled at his stunned look.

"Perfect. I didn't think so." Don stared at her. No, she was definitely not what he had expected. He now knew why the Director had warned him not to "tread on her toes". This woman was a viper and he could not help but wonder what exactly Don and his team had gotten themselves into.

_A/N: Ahh.. the first chapter is up and running. The 'viper' has arrived and she is not too pleased about her new job. The reasons why will be revealed over the next few chapters or whenever I feel like it, seeing as how I wield the pen.. :) R&R. Once again, constructive criticism is welcome. _


	3. Hit Me With Your Best Shot

_A.N: This story takes place sometime in the beginning of Season 3, before Larry goes to space. I at first was not satisfied with the way that I had portrayed Don, but then I got to thinking that this is when he is slipping down that road of finding it harder and harder to trust people; he hasn't had that long discussion with his shrink yet. I'm mad at Colby for being an ass in the season finale, so I've decided to punish him and make him the bearer of Peyton's wrath. He deserves it, though I still hold my hopes that he is a triple agent. There are some bad words in this chapter, but not too many. Also, this chapter was posted without my original reader, she's at a conference, so please excuse any grammar mistakes. I've tried to get most of them._

_Disclaimer: **Je ne possede pas Numb3rs ou Pat Benatar. **_

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"_Before I put another notch in my lipstick case, you better make sure you put me in my place."  
-Pat Benatar_

The Mediterranean like wind, common to this area during the spring months, blew down through the stone canyons of Beverly Hills as the last rays of the morning sun rose over the horizon. The fronds on the palm trees dotting the entrance and driveway swayed as Don parked his Suburban and joined his teammates. Colby and David were engaged with a pair of the investigators from the CSU. Giving them a small nod, he continued on into what could only be described as a mansion. All houses in the hills and canyons were mansions; albeit, this one was smaller than some of the ones in the higher regions, but it was still several times larger than his brother's house.

He found Megan in the kitchen, laboriously going through the cabinets and drawers, searching for anything of use for her profiling. "What do we have here, Megan?"

She paused in her searching and turned to him. "This is the home of Rick Keslow. Neighbors reported hearing what they thought was a simple argument last night, but they didn't think anything of it until this morning when they didn't see Mr. Keslow go for his morning run. They're not talking too much about it."

"Yeah well, most of these people turn the other way when something happens up here. Sounds travel in these canyons, making it hard to hear and pinpoint where the noise originates from. The same thing was the reason why nobody reported hearing anything in the Tate-LaBianca murders nearly forty years ago; people heard things but they couldn't figure out where they were coming from," he shrugged at this and followed her out of the kitchen. "So why are we here?" (1)

"Mr. Keslow worked for David Delgado." (2)

Don came to a halt as the two retraced their steps to the front door, mindful of the techs dusting for prints. He was certain he had heard that name before or read about it recently. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"David Delgado was an executive at the Laguna-Niguel luxury car dealership. He's currently being prosecuted by the D.A.'s office for embezzlement and fraudulent charges."

"Right. He stole like one million dollars from the company," Megan smirked when he said 'one million' as if to say "yeah, it was only one million". "What do we know about him?"

By now their feet had rejoined David and Colby in the driveway. They hadn't found anything immediately useful; the techs would have to process the house and see if anything turned up.

David closed his cell phone and returned it to its place on his belt. "He's been called in to testify in the Delgado case. According to the prosecuting attorney, he was offered a deal and protection from any charges. His neighbors say the recent case caused a strain on his marriage; Mrs. Keslow has moved out and filed for divorce, taking their son with her."

Colby pointed to the garage and added in his own findings. "His car's still here and none of the forensics have found any viable prints so far. There's no sign of forced entry, meaning he either invited his attacker in or he simply decided to take off on his own. But the latter is doubtful."

"Why is that?" Don asked, confusion echoing in his tone.

"The attorney says that part of his deal is that he remains until the end of the trial. No statement means…"

"No deal and charges for involvement brought up against him and his life gets screwed even more." Don finished, the missing pieces falling into place. "Is there anything else?"

Colby pointed down the drive at a spot marked off by yellow tags. "Only that right there."

Don looked at the dark liquid in the pavement; moving closer to the perimeter he saw that tiny dark splatterings spiraled out and around it. "Has anyone from the CSU identified it yet?"

"They haven't and it doesn't look like they will have to, _she_ can do it." Colby said, disdain in his voice as he pointed towards the two figures climbing from the silver Hummer that had just pulled through the iron gates.

Don groaned inwardly. He had hoped to escape his newest member and avoid another test of wills that always led to a yelling match; a yelling match that involved colorful language from both sides. The forensic specialist had been here for one week and Don already found himself envisioning a bullet from his Glock buried in her forehead or his, at this point it could go whichever way. Either way he wouldn't have to deal with that temperamental and volatile woman. If he cared to admit to himself, which he didn't, she wasn't that bad of a person. She was incredibly smart and knew exactly what she was doing. However, it was apparent to the both of them that they didn't appreciate being forced into the position that had been thrust into their laps. Neither of them was willing to meet in the middle about it, which led to them each trying to outdo the other. Don couldn't stand it when she challenged his authority as lead agent and she just seemed to not stand him at all. He didn't trust her. The blonde doctor had gone behind his back twice to his superiors, had ignored and challenged him several times, even in the field, and had yelled at him numerous times, and all within the last week. To be fair though, Don had complained about her a few times, found information before her and used it against her, and yelled at her too. If they kept this up nuclear war was likely to break out not in the Middle East, but in L.A's very own FBI office.

Sighing, Don came to the immediate conclusion that it was far too early to deal with her and especially with only a few hours of restless sleep to recharge him.

"Megan come with me. We'll go interview the neighbors again. See if we can help them remember anything else."

Colby and David watched as Don walked away, glanced at the approaching blonde, and then looked back at each other. "He's leaving us here with _her_." They both whispered simultaneously.

"She's all yours man." David grinned. He slapped him on the back and made a quick retreat, leaving Colby to his own fate.

He gulped as he awaited his apparent doom; his only comrade and backup was the dark puddle at his feet. "Oh boy."

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Peyton closed the hatch of the Hummer after grabbing their kits. Trading the one on the left for the coffee in Titus' right, she looked up towards the executive's yellow stone mansion to see the senior agent and his teammate scurry off towards the vicinity of the neighbors'. _'Good. At least they wouldn't fight this morning.'_ She thought to herself. She knew that they were being immature in refusing to cooperate with one another, he couldn't seem to trust her and let her in and she wasn't making it too easy for him to do just that. But she would be damned if she was going to cave first. There was no way, she the Doctorate with two PhD's from Berkeley and a graduate from Yale, was going to lose to the federal 'G-man'.

Taking a sip of her second latte for the morning courtesy of her Mississippian colleague, Peyton sent a silent prayer towards heaven asking for patience and guidance.

"What do you got for me?" They had left her one agent and it had to be the one that had the tendency to overshoot his mouth.

"This." Green eyes followed Agent Granger's index finger, staring unblinkingly at what was soaked into the driveway: a puddle.

"You called me out here for a _puddle_?" The last part was sneered as she stared in disbelief. _'Remain calm, Peyton. Breathe in. Breathe out.'_ "What do you expect me to do with it?"

"See what it is; test it for blood or something. Nobody else has gotten to it yet."

"And why would you expect me to do that? And just why hasn't a tech gotten to it?"

"Why can't you do it? Isn't it your job? Aren't you just like them?" He stated it as if it was the most natural thing.

"Son of a gun, there goes the other foot." Titus's southern twang came from somewhere over her shoulder.

Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and Chernobyl all exploded in her mind. _'A tech. A field tech! That's what these people though they were.'_

"Excuse me?" Fury laced her voice as she struggled not to hit something. Her words were cold and even as she approached the unfortunate agent. The silver kit dropped to the pavement with a **'thud'**, forgotten in her wake. "Let me get this straight. You and your little buddies think that I'm, _we're_, like one of _those_ people," fingers waggled at the lab technicians in the house. The ex-Afghanistan soldier had a good foot and a half on her, but she still had somehow managed to rob him of any type of speech; he could only nod. "Let me educate you, Agent Granger and I'm only going to say this once. I, my team included, are nothing like those people in that man's house. For one, they don't have half the formal education or expertise that we do; they have no specialties. Their job is to collect the evidence. They are tools and are replaceable. We are here for high profile things. When these people are at a loss, we come in. We do the things that no one else can figure out. Our jobs are to assist you, so that we can move faster and catch more of these bastards. We process, decipher, and examine. We don't do what they do and would appreciate it if you don't confuse us. It's rather insulting."

He only gave her more nods. She took a deep breath and put her mind back to the investigation and the missing man. "So, what exactly is going on?" Peyton forced her voice to even out.

"Uh…ahem…The owner works for the car executive David Delgado." He seemed to have found his voice.

"Right. The embezzlement case. Greed can make people do some surprising things." A wayward curl fell into her eyes. Reaching up she pushed it back behind her ear.

"You know him?"

"I did business with him a year ago. Sold my old car to him." She bent down and removed a testing schwab. "While I'm here I might as well test this. It'll help us to figure out if he was in any kind of trouble when he vanished. Seeing as how that is 'my job'." She winked up at the Agent and Titus. Adding a drop of luminol to the sample, three pairs of eyes watched it fluoresce a lovely shade of blue. "Yeah. It's blood. The luminol reacts with the iron in the hemoglobin in the blood."

The federal agent moved to grab his phone, probably to call his leader.

"Hey!" She barked out. "I'm not done with you yet." She turned to the other scientist there. "Titus spiral outwards in a three mile radius using the blood as a center. See if you can find anything. More blood or anything else viable. Agent Granger will go with you. Agent Granger _will_ go with you." The agent's protests died as she leveled her glare on him. The man deserved it; he had confused them with common everyday investigators.

"Go!" She pinched the bridge of her nose as the two men moved off. The dark haired agent would no doubt be pissed beyond disbelief that she had just ordered around his own agent. The truth was that Titus could use an extra set of eyes and hands. Peyton could have asked Agent Eppes if she could borrow Agent Granger, but for some reason it was easier this way.

She was used to running things her way. No one in the L.A. Crime Lab had questioned her or her team. No one had dared to. Peyton had been the second in command, with specialties in ballistics, genetics, and some minor experience in pathology. The forensic scientists on her team all held specialties as well; Kathryn was a toxicologist, Titus was an excellent blood stain and pattern analyst, and her other former member had been a computer forensic, but he had been moved to the ATF, instead of the FBI. When Peyton Huntzberger said to do something everyone had dropped everything and did it. When she said "jump" they did and asked "Was that high enough?" The scientist had only been here for one week, but she suspected that the senior agent was treated the same way. Kathryn had accessed his file after using Peyton's security clearance. Special Agent Don Eppes was an excellent and exemplary federal agent; he had been the Special Agent in Charge at the Albuquerque office, but had stepped down for what his file deemed 'family reasons' and taken a job as a senior agent at the L.A. branch. He and his team had the highest conviction rate in the FBI over the last three years. Agent Eppes was clearly a dedicated man and obviously carried the same amount of respect that Peyton had had. Maybe that was why the two couldn't get along, each trying to be the alpha leader. She suddenly envisioned two wolves snarling and circling each other in a frozen barren wasteland. _'Oh dear.'_

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Don hung up the phone, trying hard not to break it in two. The woman was seriously trying his patience. Was she trying to cause him a heart attack or an apoplectic fit? He excused himself from Megan and the neighbors, and made his was back to Keslow's home, searching for the cause of his vexation.

Spying her near Colby's 'unidentifiable puddle', he marched over the owner's immaculate lawn, trampling emerald grass as he went.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

She straightened from her crouched position, stowing her camera on top of her kit. Even with her heels, she still only came up to his chest. If it wasn't for the situation, he would have found it laughable that someone this tiny could boss anyone around. Crossing her arms, innocent green eyes peered up at him. "Well, good morning to you too, Agent Eppes. How are you?"

"Don't pull that crap with me. You know damn well why I'm over here. I just got off the phone with Colby…"

"Spineless coward," she muttered under her breath. Sighing she cut into his rant. "Look. Titus needed an extra set of eyes and Granger was there. I'm sorry ordering your agent to do something without asking you first, but you weren't…"

"Yes. That's it. He's _my _agent," her eyes flashed emerald fire, but Don pressed on. "You had no right…"

"No right? Your agent? Well excuse me, Agent Eppes, but if he's your agent then maybe you should teach him something about respect and humility."

"Respect? You haven't been respectful since you got here and what has Colby done to you?"

Her voice took on that icy quality that seemed to be a permanent part of her tone. It was like a switch. She could turn in on at any given moment. Like a light switch. On. Off. Idly, he thought, if she went to the Arctic her tone alone would combat the global warming problems. She could save the world and future generations to come. "Respect has to be earned, Agent. And as for you and yours, you have done nothing to earn mine. You may have the new highest conviction rate, but I've had the highest rate in the country for the last eight years." Her hands unfolded and began gesturing wildly. "I'm the new one here. I don't know how any of this works or anybody here. I come from a place where I'm the boss and everyone does what I say without fail. So excuse me, if I get a little irate when I come here and nobody gives a damn about whom I am and I have to spend half my time battling against you," Her finger pointed him in the face. "I didn't ask for this job and frankly I don't want it either." Her breath came out in pants as she finished her tirade.

Don was shocked. He hadn't thought of it that way. She was in the same position that he had been when he had moved back to L.A. Going from being the boss to having no one listen to you was hard and even harder when you hadn't asked to do it. Her accusations had floored him; most of them had been true. But the scientist had not responded in the right way either. "I didn't ask for this either."

"Really? I never would have guessed." Sighing, she shook her head, fatigue washing over her features, despite it still being early in the morning. "I'm going back to the lab. I still have paperwork to fill out, things to transfer over, and my office still needs to be organized. Titus will let you know if he finds anything immediately pertinent. I hope you find him."

She had been packing up her camera and equipment back into her kit and now stood, making her way back down towards her Hummer. "Look… I… Ms. Huntzberger…"

Turning around, but continuing to walk away from him, she called out. "I have two PhD's, Agent. So if you want to get formal it's really 'Doctor'"

As Don watched the SUV back out, he had the sinking suspicion that this wasn't over. While she had yelled at him and made him feel like an ass, she hadn't gone nuclear and that worried him. No, this wasn't over and unfortunately the Director had told him that there was no backing out of this; Don had already tried to send her back. It looked as if one of them would have to apologize and it would no doubtfully have to be him.

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The steel trunk made a large splash as it slipped into the bay. Cautiously, the figure hidden in the shadows peered around, hoping the noise hadn't attracted any unwanted eyes. He did not need to be caught. The dye hadn't worked in his latest experiment. The subject had remained the same; there had been no variable change. The test subject had died as a result of the experimentation. He did not regret it though. It simply meant he would have to work harder and change his methods for the next test. The subject had been weak. There was no place in this world for those who were weak, just as there was no place for those who were imperfect in this world. Others had failed sixty years ago, but he would not fail. His latest subject had been an abomination for the plan. She had not reacted to his modifications. She was weak and had died. Her death and weakness proved that she held no place in this world.

The dark figure watched for a few more moments and then retreated back the way he came, mindful of any potential watchers. He needed to find a new test subject. The other would not last much longer either. The other would soon follow in the ways of this one. The other was weak as well. He needed to find stronger subjects who would react to the chemicals. With his thoughts toward his future tests and plan, the figure left the area. The steel trunk, forgotten now, sank to the bottom of the bay. The only witnesses to the night's disturbances were the stars ahead and the few fish who lived in this area.

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**(1)** The Tate-LaBianca murders were the murders that took place in the canyons of Beverly Hills; the Manson murders. It is true that that night, neighbors and others who lived in the canyons heard gunshots, but they could not tell where the shots came from. No one reported anything until after the bodies were found. It is also true that people in the canyon do not like to talk of the disturbances.

**(2) **David Delgado is a true executive from the car dealership in LA. He is being charged by the D.A for embezzlement for just over one million dollars. Keslow is not real. I got the case from the LA FBI website.

_A.N: This chapter came out really long. It's probably the longest chapter that I've ever written. If you can believe it, it was supposed to have a flashback of the meeting from the last chapter. I took it out and it will probably be seen in the next chapter. I'm heavily inspired by music, so that I why music will be featured at the beginning of each chapter. I've tried my best to research the stuff about the forensics and the specialists. I promise to try as be as real as I can be; if anyone finds me wrong, tell me and I will correct it. Thanks to my reviewers, I got over 300 hits for this, so that in itself makes me happy. This is really a filler chapter, and leads straight into the next one. Charlie is coming soon. We learned more about Peyton and will continue to learn more about her. I also threw in a little bit of the serial killer too. Read and enjoy. I appreciate the comments and the constructive criticism. Thanks. _


	4. Hide and Seek

_A.N: This and the next chapter were originally supposed to be one chapter, but it continued to grow extraneously. I have decided to split it into two. Thus, this is Peyton's chapter and the next is Don's. Hopefully, she will be redeemed as one of my reviewers has made it clear that they don't care for her attitude. :)_

_**Disclaimer**: Alright, fine, I admit it. I am the one who owns Numb3rs, I'm responsible for everything that happens to this show... I'm the reason behind everything: David always getting shot, Colby being a "traitor", Don needing a shrink because he is just one step away from going crazy, Megan leaving and then coming back (well, maybe that was her own devices), Larry being so out of touch with reality and going to be a monk for a while, and Charlie never going to get anywhere with his romantic love life with Amita. There it's all my fault... No, not really, that would be the people over at CBS. I just own the DVD's and this story... which has to count for something right? No, oh well...it was worth a shot. And I am not a songwriter either._

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_"Mmmm whacha say, Mmmm that you only meant well?, well of course you did"_

_-Imogen Heap-_

Keys jiggled as the knob turned, the door swinging open to rebound against the glass wall. Heels echoed across the tile as the Assistant Supervisor of the L.A.'s FBI Crime Lab dropped her bag and jacket near her chair. Nimble fingers pushed the button on the monitor and then crossed the room, closing the door and hitting the lights as she went by.

Seating herself at her desk, Peyton began her normal morning ritual. Taking a sip of her coffee, she logged into the system, finding herself with nothing new except for an e-mail about leaving your office door unlocked at night for the janitors. With a sniff at the absurdity of FBI policy, she reached for the phone. The message board's automated monosyllabic voice told her she had no voicemails. The oak wood was bare of any notes from the night secretary. Apparently, nothing of importance had happened last night that needed to be brought to her attention. This didn't bode well with her. She'd finished all the paperwork yesterday after returning to the lab and without something to fixate her mind upon her thoughts tended to drift on how awful her relationship with Agent Eppes was. Despite Kathryn's assurances, she felt that it may be too late to do anything about it. _'Maybe I could send him a fruit basket?'_ she thought humorously.

After yesterday's incident she hadn't been able to think about anything else but yesterday. There had been no sleep for her last night. The phrase "no rest for the wicked" sudddenly became all the more clear to her. She'd wandered around the townhouse while Kathryn slept peacefully and guiltless on the other side of the door. Finally, she had brewed a pot of coffee and cracked open an old analytical chemistry textbook at the kitchen island. Peyton had sat there for hours in the low light with the constant drip-drop from the sink faucet breaking the silence in the house, and that was the scene that Kathryn had walked in on, with her nursing her fourth cup:

_Peyton looked up from the stark white pages as Kathryn came into the kitchen, rubbing the grit from her half lidded eyes. With a double take, her robed friend for almost thirty three years stopped and leaned against the other side of kitchen. _

_"What are you doing in here?" her brow furrowed and she looked suspiciously at her. "How long have you been down here?" Her voice, despite the early morning, was incredulous. _

_Peyton glanced at the clock on the stove. The digital red numbers read 6:13, meaning that seven hours had passed since the island seat had called her. She shrugged at Kathryn. "Dunno."_

_"Somehow I find that hard to believe," Pushing off, she poured her own cup, added the fixtures, and joined her. "When you don't sleep it's because you are feeling guilty. You manage to sleep during everything else: happiness, depression, anger, denial, etc… You've done something that was wrong and now you feel bad about it. So, come on spill, what did you do?"_

_"Nothing." Moving to the sink, Peyton slammed her mug down. Would everyone just quit with the damn accusations. Why was it her fault? "I did nothing!"_

_Her temporary psychiatrist for the morning gave her a pointed look from her seat. "Check your nose, Pinocchio. Does it have anything to do with the McFed and your argument yesterday?"_

_Whirling around so fast that she almost gave herself whiplash, she smashed her elbow on the counter. "Shit…No! No nicknames! The replacement of a name with a "friendly" nickname implies friendship. It means that we like him." The pain gradually faded as she rubbed the spot._

_"I do like him…"_

_"Whose side are you on, Brutus?" Peyton cut her off, crying out in outrage, elbow forgotten._

_"As your best friend I'm always on your side, P, but I like Agent Eppes. And I like his teammates. They're good people, Peyton, and they're good at their jobs. You should give them a chance."_

_"I don't want to give them a chance." She said, sounding very much like a petulant child. _

_"Oh for the love of Christ, act your age Peyton Huntzberger. You need to quit being so mad at Agent Eppes for all of this and get mad at the people who really are to blame: Our government. They suck."_

_"I don't pay you to be my shrink." She muttered in defeat, hugging herself. She didn't like this conversation with all of its blaming and pointing out how she was so clearly in the wrong._

_"You don't pay me to be your best friend, but I do it anyway because I love you. And I'd rather be your Jiminy Cricket. You know I don't like psychiatrists with all their psycho babble." Kathryn rolled her eyes playfully and waved her hand around at the words "psycho babble". _

_Peyton leaned back against the cool marble and processed Kathryn's admissions. Who was she really mad at? It was the people at the FBI in D.C. who had "asked" for her to switch positions. She didn't know their names, but she knew that Don Eppes was not one of them. He had made that abundantly clear yesterday. Had she really been that awful? Yes, she had been. She'd blamed everyone else except the people who really deserved her anger. Peyton had preached about respect and done nothing to show for it. These people had no idea who she was and they had no reason to. No one had told them that they had a genius working for them or the best forensic scientist ever seen throughout the world. Peyton was a highly esteemed member in the scientific community, but that was really no excuse. She had better class and manners than that and it was time that she showed them. "I've been a bitch haven't I?" _

_Kathryn held up her hand showing two fingers close together and smiled around her mug. "Maybe just a little." _

_She growled. "Ergghh… How am I going to fix this?"_

_"Well, you could always apologize to the McFed." Kathryn's chair scraped against the stone tile as she stood. Stretching, her friend patted her on the shoulder and then moved off down the hall. "I'm going to get ready. I'll ride with you. You know, just try being nice to him. I know that's hard for you, but…" Her voice trailed off as she retreated back to her room._

_"Be nice…Yeah… Wait, McFed? Kathryn, you've been watching Grey's Anatomy again without me? Why does it have to be a "Mc" nickname; don't you know what those stand for?" (1)_

Frowning, Peyton returned to the land of the living, leaving her memories of the morning behind, as her desk phone rang. She hit the speaker and answered with a curt "Huntzberger."

"Dr. Huntzberger, there's someone from the L.A. Crime Lab to see you." The ever chipper voice of the secretary crackled through the speakers.

"I'm in here. You can send them back, please."

"Yes, Dr. Huntzberger."

"Thank you." The speaker's clicked as the woman disconnected and Peyton hung up. Peyton knew that she had to face the music and Agent Eppes sometime soon, but for now she'd settle for the cop-out and deal with her unwanted guest. She had a sinking suspicion she knew exactly who it was from her old job that had come to pay her an early morning visit, and Peyton would almost rather deal with the senior agent than this ass.

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(1) For those who don't watch Grey's Anatomy or have not heard of the "Mc" nickname, it is used for two of the male stars on the show. They are McDreamy and McSteamy. My mother called Don the McFed one time after an episode on the phone. So that's what we call him now. Thank her for it. I find it funny.

_A.N: Not feeling too well at the moment, I'll have the next one up soon. I'm off to find some stronger medicine. I've had over 500 hits for this story and only 5 reviews. Thanks to simanis who has reviewed for every chapter. Guys, this is really your story, I've already got the story for me. I put this up here for you guys, so I am imploring you as one writer to another, let me know what you think... I know it's slow at the beginning and I'm revising and posting as fast as I can, but really let me know, even if it is just like one word or one sentence. Constructive Criticism is what I appreciate. If there is something that you don't like, tell me, and I might fix it, so long as it doesn't disrupt the entire story. And I can promise that pain and suffering are coming later... but we have to build up to it, got to get the base line going before I hurt and torture my characters. So, R&R please. Also, the song by Imogen Heap is called Hide and Seek and is a beautiful song._


	5. Respect

_This chapter was written and revised under the influence of espresso shots at my book/cafe job and Journey at 7 in the morning, due to I couldn't sleep and went in to work early where I don't have to pay for the coffee. _

_A.N: I couldn't resist with the song. _

**Disclaimer: (does best imitation of Luke after learning that Darth Vader is indeed his father): "NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"**

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"_R-E-S-P-E-C-T, Find out what it means to me"_

_-Aretha Franklin_

Cheesy elevator music crackled overhead in the elevator. The doors 'binged' open and he stepped out, pondering at the location of their forensic department. Why was the crime lab stuck in the basement? Why did the crime lab get screwed all the way on the bottommost level? Even the morgue was one level up. Hell, the accounting people got a regular level. Somehow it didn't seem fair, as if they were trying to hide them from the world so that no one could see them.

Don smiled at the secretary, asking her if the female doctor was in her office or somewhere elsewhere in the lab. The girl nodded around her headset, pointing somewhere in the vicinity of the right hallway. Nodding in thanks, he set off to find her. They needed to talk and make an attempt to put their arguments and disagreements behind them. They needed to work together and the sooner the better. The Keslow case was still open, and they couldn't seem to find any leads.

Her door was open, the wooden plaque to the right reading '**Peyton Huntzberger, PhD. Assistant Supervisor**' in black letters. Don stopped as the sound of voices reached his ears, not wanting to intrude. She wasn't alone and by his judgment the voice did not sound friendly.

"What do you mean 'what the hell am I doing here?' I work here now." That was her voice; she sounded tired and frustrated, but angry.

"Yeah, I get that. What I don't get is why you work here. You were the second in command. You were due to become Head Investigator in two weeks. Now I'm going to get it." That was a man's voice. A man's voice that was far too smug.

"You should be leaping for joy over that. You've been trying to beat me for the last eight years, ever since you transferred out here, and now you finally have. You're becoming Chief at the Crime Lab and me, Peyton Huntzberger, _the_ Dr. Peyton Huntzberger… I'm stuck here." The sound of a book slamming shut came from somewhere in the office.

"I am thrilled."

"Then why are you here?" Don was glad to know that her icy tone was not reserved especially for him. She just used it on everyone who seemed to piss her off. "To gloat?"

"I suppose I am here to gloat a little, just a little bit. To see the mighty Dr. Huntzberger fallen is a sight to behold; given the chance to become number one in this whole damn city, only to have it snatched right from underneath her. It's quite a story don't you think?"

"If that's all you came to say, Laughlin, then I'm done with you. You can leave. I have other things to attend to this morning, instead of trading barbs with a pathetic excuse for a forensic scientist such as you. Forgive me that I don't show you the way out."

Wood scraped harshly against the floor as someone stood quickly. "Alright. I'll leave. But don't think you can come back. I'm in charge now and no one, not even you, is going to ruin that. Your days of ruling the crime lab are over."

"Laughlin, no matter who is head chief over there, I will always be better than you. Now get out, Laughlin. Get out of _my_ crime lab and _my_ building before I have you thrown out."

"I'll remember this when you need something. Don't come asking for favors, Peyton."

She barked. "Ha. You should know that the FBI doesn't _ask_ for any favors from the police department. They don't ask. They take."

Don stepped aside as a flushed faced man came hurtling out of the doorway, heedless of his surroundings, nearly knocking him over in the process. Watching him stride away leaving trails of anger in his wake, Don waited a few seconds and then knocked on the glass before coming to stand in the door frame.

The petite blonde turned from leafing through a file and gave him a surprised look. "Agent Eppes," her eyes glanced around him at the open door. "You heard all of that didn't you?"

"Uh…kind of." He rubbed the back of his neck, his hand sliding forward through his hair to fall back at his side.

"Great. Sorry about that." The folder closed with a snap. Peyton moved to her desk and leaned back against it, using her palms to hold her weight. "I was actually coming to look for you, but he got to me first."

"Is all of that true?"

"Is all of what true?" She echoed as if she had no idea what had just transpired.

His thumb jerked back to the door, motioning to where the man had made his hasty exit. "All of that. What he said; you were supposed to take over, but got put here instead… with me." Things were suddenly becoming clear, the reason for Peyton's anger at Colby and him apparent; well, maybe, Colby deserved the tongue lashing after speaking repetitively with out thinking. Don could understand why she was angry, and he could relate. It didn't excuse her actions in trying to ignore his authority but it offered an explanation as to why she thought she could. He looked into her green eyes, seeing the internal conflict as she struggled with how she wanted to go about explaining the embarrassing confrontation he had overheard.

"Yeah…It's true. I was 'Peyton Huntzberger, PhD. and Assistant Investigator to the Los Angeles Crime Lab'. The current Head Investigator is retiring at the end of next week and I was tapped to replace him. But as fate is so often in want of screwing me over, I received a phone call from the powers that be in D.C. They didn't exactly ask. We were given two weeks to wrap up our open cases and to gain the clearance that we needed; Kathryn and I only needed to regain our clearance, as this is not the first time we have worked for the government. And now, here I am." (1)

For the life of him he couldn't think of anything to say. Racking his brain for a suitable response, he came up with nothing. Luckily, Peyton must have seen something in his expression and she saved him from having to speak.

"Yeah, it's pretty fucked up if you ask me."

"Look. I want to apolo-"

She held up a hand, forestalling him. "No, don't. I'm the one who needs to be apologizing," to say he was shocked was an understatement; she had blamed him yesterday for everything and Don had not pegged her for the type of person who would admit they were wrong easily. "I was rude and uncouth. I shouldn't have used your agent before checking with you first. It undermined your authority as a leader; I wouldn't have appreciated it had the roles been the reverse. I promise not to do it in the future before coming to you first. I've been so angry over this whole situation, which you see why now, and in my mind I've been wrongly blaming you for it. My mind has symbolized you as the reason why I'm here and there is no justification or logic behind that. I suppose I thought that if I could prove that we could not get along, then I could go back to my old job and be promoted. I see now that that is not going to work. It would appear that you and I are stuck together. I should be pleased at this. It is an honor to be asked to work for the FBI, but I'm not, and until I get to that point it's going to be hard."

Her words were true and more than what he had been expecting. She appeared to have done a complete turn around from yesterday and he wondered what had caused her to do so. "Look... We've been behaving poorly…and immature. I haven't done anything to make this easier on you, and honestly, I haven't cared until now. It's hard. I'm the boss. I'm the man and have been for the last five years. It's hard to open up and trust you." (2)

The corners of her mouth twitched into a grin that resembled the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland, a story that he remembered his mother reading to him. "I've been a bitch, and you've been somewhat of an ass. But mainly, I've been a bitch. That's why I want to call a truce. You don't have to trust me just yet. Trust is something that has to be earned and it would be an understatement if we didn't expect that to take time. But we're both leaders, you and I, and we lead by example. Our teammates follow our examples and get their cues from us. If we can't get along then neither will they. If we're too busy fighting one another than that leaves no time for me to figure out the 'who' and the 'how' and no time for you to find the bad guys and bring them in. That doesn't exactly work for me and I don't think it works for you either."

Don weighed her proposition. He didn't know if starting over would fix things between the two of them. But she was right. They couldn't afford to waste time over this, while the murders and criminals alike walked around freely. "A truce then? A white flag?"

"A truce…or rather a time out. For now. We can manage to forge some type of respect for one another. You are an impressive federal agent with an impeccable record. I can respect that."

"Respect." Don found himself looking at the walls, taking in the decorations: an Oriental sword, pictures of foreign places, some ancient looking pottery that strongly resembled something from Central America. His eyes alighted upon a row of frames next to the shelves of books; they were shiny silver frames that reflected the fluorescent lights. Upon closer inspection, he saw that they framed her degrees (high school, college, graduate school) and accolades. They were for things that dealt with science, both chemistry and psychics. One of them, he vaguely recalled, was an award that Charlie had won a few years back. He didn't know much about the realm that his genius brother revolved in, but he did know that an award like that was given to people like his brother: geniuses. '_Really smart people'_. People who at the age of three could do complex numbers in their head. Who exactly was Peyton Huntzberger?

"So, do we have an accord?" He blinked. When had she gotten that close to him? Her hand was extended, waiting for him to shake on their 'deal'. He took the proffered limb, murmuring a soft 'yes'. "So, that was why I was looking for you. Why were you looking for me?"

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"My specialties don't exactly lie in the audio/visual aspect of the forensic world. My expertise lies more in ballistics and genetics; we _had_ an audio forensic," she put a slight emphasis on the word 'had', "But…Uh…They wouldn't let me bring him with me. The ATF snatched him up. They have him doing some raids and stuff down in Mexico with them."

As she tapped away on the keys and toggled with the mouse, Peyton prattled on to him and the empty technical room. It was stifling hot, due to the numerous computers and motherboards. The hum of the fans intertwined with her words creating a lulling sensation that made it hard to focus on what she was talking about. "…I don't know where Arty is…he's the one who runs this stuff."

Don didn't know what good any of this would do. They and the video techs had already combed through the surveillance from Keslow's house. Nothing had shown up. The tapes were completely black except for the time and date. The film was too dark to pick up anything. The lights had malfunctioned on the cameras or someone had deliberately messed with the iris and the lens. Don had his money on the latter.

"…All those Hollywood types are paranoid enough to have about ten cameras, give or take a few. Hopefully, his ten odd cameras picked up his kidnapper." She continued to speak, oblivious that he was only partially listening to her.

"We've already gone through the tape from that night. There wasn't enough light to pick up anything."

Without turning, she waggled a finger towards him at his lack of faith. In exasperation his fingers moved toward his hairline, itching to run through it. "Ah! But you haven't had me go through the tapes yet. I learned a few things over the years through my buddy. Normally, we would take the fuzzy and distilled images and run them through filters that sharpen the pixels, producing a clearer image. However, we would need something to go off of in order to do that and you're telling me that we've got nothing. But, there is this program, that is relatively new, that uses complex math algorithms and a human feature database that can give an outline of any human feature that it picks up from the film. I forget what the math is called, but it works sort of along the same principle as a bat's sonar; technically it's called biosonar. A bat can't see and uses sonar to determine where its prey is. A bat can also determine, roughly, what exactly its prey is. The algorithm doesn't use sonar, obviously, but it works along the same line. The algorithm feels out the shapes and categorizes them, trying to determine what they are. The human feature database cross references with the algorithm's findings and determines if it's human. Just because we cannot see them doesn't mean they are not there; they're just hidden from our sight, because of the lack of a light source. It has a success rate of about eighty percent provided that you have some human profiles to cross reference with it. You do have a list of potential suspects right?"

"Yeah," he flipped through the folder in his hand, until he came to the list he wanted. "Megan went through e-mails and letters from any employee that Keslow received over the last few weeks, as well as the list the prosecutor's office sent over. Colby and David are running down the ones that Megan tagged as most likely to kidnap him."

Her eyes narrowed at the screen. She tapped a few more keys and the screen went black. Don moved to look over her shoulder, wondering at what the program was doing. He'd never paid much attention to the other side of investigative work, never cared much on how the blood was collected or the DNA matched. He didn't have time to think about those things. He only needed them delivered in his hands so that he could make the connection and hunt down the name on the paper. But, what she was doing sounded interesting.

Peyton touched a corner of the screen where a line of white numbers had showed up. "That's the time clock of the tapes. This screen will show us the footage and if anything is caught it will show up." She turned and pointed to the flat monitor to the right. He guessed it was the program; numbers, commands, and equations flew over the screen. "Now, the math and the database will pick up on anything that it recognizes as possibly being human. We have distinct features in our bodies that naturally separate us from other objects; plants, animals, trees, rocks. The military and the CIA use it quite frequently for night time excursions and terrorist surveillance."

The concept sounded familiar to something Charlie had developed for a past case. Charlie. Don had thought to ask for Charlie's help before this, but he was away at a conference in San Diego and wasn't due back until later today. If her program turned up blank then he would go to Charlie. He could always find something, no matter what the situation.

"It could take a while for the program to find-"

"What is that?" Don pointed to the screen to the left. The blackness of the screen was lighting up around the right side of the screen. His fingers circled it. The screen to the right, running the program, was jumbled with those equations and such; Don had no clue as to what they meant, but she did. _'tap, tap, tap_'. She banged away at the keys, doing something that he hoped was going to help him. An outline began to form in the same area. "What are you doing?"

"Telling the program to enhance the area. It's picked up on something." _'tap, tap, tap'. _ How did she type so fast without messing up a command or equation? "Give it a minute." True to her word, the image continued to lighten up. It wasn't filling in the image. Rather, it was outlining it. In a matter of minutes the outline of a man's face and upper body had replaced the blackness of the left side of the screen. "If you have a good enough profile of the people on your list you should be able to run an analysis on them and compare them to this one. It should find a match if it is a co-worker of his."

Don snatched the outline from the printer. "Yeah...Good. I'll get this upstairs and see if it matches anybody."

"The program will continue to run throughout the entire surveillance footage. I'll let you know if he turns up again or anyone else. It's possible that you catch him leaving the same way, and even with Keslow in tow."

It looked like he didn't need Charlie this time. Hoping that this matched one of Megan's finds, Don moved to leave the room, stopping as he remembered her. They were being nice now. "Thanks."

She smiled and waved him off from over her shoulder, already returning to study the screen_. 'tap, tap, tap'_. They could be nice and get along. He found himself thinking that she wasn't that bad when she wasn't at his throat. Plus, she'd helped him find a potential lead. He could be nice to anyone who could do that.

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_A.N: This chapter is done. Weeeeeee!! Finally, I can move on with the real stuff and hopefully Peyton and Don will play nice now. Though there is no guarantee with that, for some reason they just don't listen to me. Next chapter will start in with the serial killer and technically, what the story is supposed to be about. And it will also feature Charlie, who I decided went away for the Keslow case here. Don't ask why. He just needed to go. So he took a vacation, which to him is going to a conference._

_(1) I've been told by my father, who used to work for the CIA, that when you leave a governmental agency and no longer work/consult with them, your clearance is taken away. That is kind of to be expected._

_(2) That is a line from the episode One Hour, Season 3. Don is with his therapist and says this. I borrowed it for this chapter. He can have it back now._

_(3) I don't pretend to be a math major or a science major. So, any math or science is done through research and may be altered and tweaked a bit to fit my needs. There is a program that sort of does what this one does kind of. I just tweaked changed it a bit for me, as is my right as the writer. __R&R please. They are like espresso shots... Which is basically like taking speed...(not recommended for anyone who has never done them before, is going to drive, or is going to sit in class and listen to someone.)_


	6. I Wonder

_Sorry guys...I abandoned you guys for my birthday, Harry Potter, and my sister's dog's skin rash. Many apologies. I'm horrid, I know. This chapter begins the real story, so to speak._

_**Disclaimer: No. Period. End of Discussion. Though I am now in possession of eighty four dollars worth of pills for my sister's dog.**_

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"_Oh, I hear the weather's nice in California, There's sunny skies as far as I can see"_

_-Kellie Pickler-_

The wood, filled with years of countless family memories, creaked as someone opened and closed the front door to the Craftsman home. The man unclipped his keys and his weapon from his belt and tossed them onto the wooden table. "Dad? Charlie? Anyone home?"

"In here Donnie."

The FBI agent joined his father in the den; the elder Eppes was busy with a crossword, pen in hand, in the dim light cast from the side table lamp. "It's a little late don't you think?"

Don looked down at his wrist. Damn. He'd lost track of the time. His thoughts had been completely centered on the case. Time and all other thoughts had been pushed to the side.

"Oh…yeah." He sank into the ottoman, muscles releasing and relaxing from their tense positions.

Alan took in the disheveled appearance of his oldest son. His hair, judging by the different directions, looked as if it had been run through several times; it was a nervous habit that Don had picked up; he did it whenever he was flustered or stressed. The pressed white shirt was not so pressed anymore, wrinkles having taken over. "Did you uh…find the guy?"

"Who? Keslow?" The words were muffled behind the arm that had been thrown over his face.

"The car exec? He's been all over the news for the past three days."

"Yeah. We found him." There was a short pause and then he continued to say, "Alive, thank God."

"That's good." Alan was not going to push his son. It was rare enough that Don opened up about any of his cases. Charlie and Alan had only recently, over the years, convinced Don that his childhood home was always open for him when he needed it. His eldest always tried to be the one that didn't need anyone else, always tried to be strong, but they had finally convinced him that he didn't always have to be the strong one. He could lean on them when needed, if only for a short time until he slipped back into the role of toughened FBI agent.

Don was about to ask the whereabouts of his younger brother, when the person in question himself came through the kitchen door, head bent, focusing on something in his hand. His brother had only been home for a few hours and had already gone back to his haven in the garage.

"Hey, Dad, do we have any…" He stopped at seeing his brother. "Oh, Hey Don. I tried calling you; Dad mentioned you couldn't find anything conclusive on your case. I was going to ask if you wanted me to take a look. With enough data from surveillance I should be able-"

The agent waved his hand. "No. Thanks, Charlie. We found him tonight."

Charlie quieted at this. "So, uh…I guess you won't need my services."

"Not this time, Buddy. We've got a new forensic specialist that helped us find him. Used some program with math similar to something you would have made up. Dr. Huntzberger is her name. She, and her team, got transferred to us a couple of days-"

Charlie looked from his paper, clearly now more interested in his brother instead of whatever was written in ink. Coming closer to the den and the two he asked, "Dr. Huntzberger? As in Peyton Huntzberger?"

Don looked up at his brother. He remembered the frames that he had seen in her office this morning. Perhaps Charlie knew more about her. The more facts he knew about the doctor the easier it would be to get along with her. "You know her?"

Charlie gave him a baffled look as if it was the most ludicrous question, as if he was an idiot for not knowing who she was. "Well, yes."

"Yeah? What do you know about her?"

"Well, Peyton Huntzberger is a highly esteemed member of the scientific community. She's a world renowned forensic expert; some argue that she is the best there has ever been or will be. She's ingenious in her methods and has influence over a great number of people, ranging from simple law enforcement to Senators. I've only met her a few times, but I've never worked with her. I think she crossed paths with Larry at some point in time. You know Don, I'm surprised that you have never worked with her either. It was to my understanding that she worked at the L.A. Crime Lab. I would have thought that you would have come into some type of contact with her." He paused for a moment, shaking his head, curls bouncing, as a thought came across his features. "But, Peyton is somewhat of an anomaly."

"How so?"

"Well, for one, she's from a very affluent family on the east coast; her parents presumed that she would become a research doctor or lawyer or a politician. At least follow in the footsteps of her father. Entering into the lowly paid world of working for the government was not in her family's plans. In my world, she's thought of as odd, because of the fact that she doesn't teach or do any type of research; with a mind like hers she should be consulting on research projects. However, if you believe the rumors, you're not the first time that she's worked for the government, Don. I know she's consulted for the NSA," he looked sheepish at this, "I…uh...might have seen her name in the computer once, along with what she was doing. She does keep who she works for a tightly guarded secret. It's rumored that she once worked for the CIA on biochemical weapons to be used in the Middle East. For all she's worth, she does her job exceptionally well; she's got a closing rate of ninety-seven percent."

"Sounds like you Charlie. You say she works for you, Donnie?"

Don shook his head at his father. "Yeah, well, she doesn't work for me. Ask her, she'll say she works with me. She's got the temper of a viper."

Alan looked at his son over the rim of his glasses, the crossword forgotten for the moment. Don recognized that look. It was the same look that his father had given him back in high school when Don had done something wrong that was abundantly clear to everyone else but him. "Ah, Donnie. She can't be that bad. You should try being nice to her. You know, don't do that boss thing that you do so much."

The hand came off the eyes and waved in disbelief. "Ah, come on, Dad. How can you say that? It's not like I've been mean to her. You haven't even met her and you're already taking her side. And what boss thing?"

"You just sometimes tend to come off a little too strong on people when you get going, too much in charge. You might scare the girl. That could be the problem."

"I do not." He retorted; riled up now, he flounced up, sitting on the edge of the chair. 'Scare the girl? Peyton Huntzberger afraid of him? Yeah. That was it. That was why she had yelled at him.'

"Yeah. You do tend to do that, Don. Although, I think it's just the emotional pull around you. You get caught up in the moment…" Charlie piped in from his position in the archway, providing evidence to support his father.

Don leaned back into his previous position, his head falling back to rest on the wood of the chair. He eventually quit listening to his father and brother arguing about his so called 'demanding boss like' attitude. For that night he pushed all thoughts of their truce and Peyton Huntzberger from his mind, determined to get some non-interrupted sleep. It worked until his phone went off somewhere around seven in the morning, rousing him from his rest as he half listened to what Megan had to say. When she finally stated what it was he was suddenly fully awake. Don was dressed, out the door without a goodbye, and backing out of the driveway in a matter of minutes.

**-----------------------------------------------------------------**

The sun shone down on the citizens of Los Angeles as they went about their daily business. It was a clear blue sky, not a cloud could be observed, puffy or dangerous. The smog and pollution that was normally prevalent was low scale today. They could all breathe deeply and not worry about dying from some disease twenty years before their normal time. A balmy wind blew down into the valley city; it made for a pleasant and comfortable day in spring. A day to be outside with friends, families, and loved ones. It was a happy day, not a day for what lay before her.

Megan lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the reflection of the sun's rays from the water. Thoughts ran idly through her mind as she scanned the scene. How was it that they always found these types of scenes on beautiful days, days when the sky was an endless blue? Somehow she thought it should be dreary or devastating on a day when they were called out to see this. It was never raining. Somehow, it just didn't seem right.

Colby stood beside her, her silent watcher. He was absorbed in his own thoughts as the police unrolled their yellow tape, marking the perimeter. As to whether it was about their new case or who won the game last night, Megan couldn't tell.

The familiar sound of rubber gritting against asphalt and the flash of silver paint, emblazoned with the circular L.A. FBI seal, caused the both of them to turn towards the SUV now alongside their own. Colby and Megan both had taken one look at the fisherman's find and silently come up with the same conclusion: She would want to see this, needed to see this, and was probably the only other person besides the medical examiner who could explain to them what it was.

"I'm going over there." Colby turned from watching her collecting her kit, and pointed at the woman with the 'FBI; Medical Examiner' jacket in big yellow letters.

She quirked one eyebrow. This was interesting. Could it be that he was actually intimidated by the doctor? Megan voiced her thoughts, enjoying the chance to tease her friend.

"No!" Frowning at her smirk, he shifted his gaze back to the approaching woman in question. "Maybe," his face glowered as she let out a laugh, "Hey. Don't laugh. She's got it out for me, Megan. I can't even get one word in when she's around before she's down my throat making me feel like I'm three years old again. Just wait until you're on her list. I'm just avoiding the temptation for her to yell at me. If I'm not here then I can't do anything wrong."

"Uh-hunh. Well, unlike you, Granger, I'm not afraid of the doctor. I haven't done anything to make her mad."

The profiler laughed as the disgruntled agent left her side to exchange facts with the medical examiner.

"What's so hilarious?" Huntzberger had joined her, head tilted in curiosity, eyes hidden by those oversized shades, kit in hand.

Megan found herself comparing the forensic doctor to their team's other residential doctor; by reading her file, Megan had discovered that Peyton too possessed a brilliant mind. However, unlike Charlie who sometimes looked as if he had just walked out of his closet without putting much thought into what he was wearing, Peyton was always impeccably dressed. She also possessed a fighting spirit that was in direct opposite to her diminutive stature. Charlie was not the most forward person, in contrast to his big brother. When his math came into question he didn't always defend it in a firm manner. Charlie, in his world of numbers and algorithms, did not hold the best set of people skills. It was this reason that Don, especially him, and the rest of the team were so protective of the younger man. Peyton, on the other hand, knew just how to deal with people who questioned her. She, with a cool tone and an even cooler gaze, pinned them until they did exactly what she wanted them to. In their profession, where men continued to dominate despite it being the twenty-first century, Megan admired the fact that the doctor stood out.

"Nothing." She followed the shielded gaze to Colby, the white lie falling through.

"Right."

They both fell in step, picking their way over loose nails, hooks, and rotted planks.

"You're not originally from here are you?"

Megan stumbled, the toe of her boot catching on something. 'Blunt, much?' The woman wasted no time. "How could you tell? And why the sudden interest?"

The shorter woman shrugged. "Just trying to connect. Creating small talk," the shades slid down the bridge of her nose and she gave Megan a small wink, "Your accent gives it away. Eastern side of the country I believe?"

"Yeah. And you? You're not native to L.A. either. The District?"

"How did you find out about that? My accent is nearly nonexistent after twelve years."

"I read it in your file." It was Megan's turn to wink.

She nodded. "Of course you did. You probably read all of our files when we transferred. Probably was the first thing you did." Megan couldn't deny that she hadn't. The natural curiousity that made up her profiling nature had taken over. "No. You would be correct. Georgetown is my hometown. I left when I was twenty. I've lived here ever since."

"Three thousand miles is pretty far away. There are plenty of jobs back in D.C. for someone like you. Something must have made you come out here. Family issues? I had some of those. Ran away when I was fifteen."

"You could say it was something like that."

They had reached the boat. The Medical Examiner passed them, finished with her preliminary report. Colby took up his silent position by her side.

The doctor was done with her little friendly chat with Megan. Turning to Colby, she addressed him, all business as she moved her sunglasses from her face to her head. "What do we have here, Agent Granger?"

"The examiner says it's definitely human. I don't see how, but…well, see for yourself."

"Is it that bad?"

His shoulder shook as he shuddered for a second. It wasn't normal for Colby, a man who had seen such horrors in the war that he still carried the emotional scars on his shoulders, to be so affected by the sight on the boat. It hadn't been too long ago that those scars had come back to haunt him. Usually, crime scenes didn't faze him at all. This one, however, was not something usual. This one was anything but normal. They had both had a hard time looking at it for longer than a few seconds. Their stomachs had rolled and heaved, and they had retreated back towards their vehicle; retreated back to where they were safe from the sight and stench.

"Let's just say, I hope that you didn't have a heavy breakfast."

The forensic expert looked at both of their faces, saw twin expressions mirrored on each other, and gave them both a frown. Ducking under the yellow cross tape, she balanced her weight and then stepped onto the rocking boat. Her figure disappeared from their sight as she rounded the corner. And then her voice rang from the bow, loud and clear in the endless blue sky.

"What the hell is that?"

**-----------------------------------------**

_A.N: And now it's time to play 'Guess-just-what-it-is?' It's actually pretty obvious. Those of you who get it win...something. _

_Questions, comments, guesses, etc... go in the box below. They make my day and let me know what I need to improve on. I tried something new with this chapter, it has more of a thought/dialogue approach instead of the emotions. Let me know the verdict._

_Thanks to those of you who take the time to read this, thanks to those of you have added me to your alerts and such, and thanks to you, who has reviewed. _


	7. Truth Is A Whisper

_Enjoy my lovelies...I thought I would write an extra long chapter to make up for my leaving you for ten days... I needed a place for the head to go...sorry that wasn't too creative. Also, I hope that you know who Brutus and Cassius are. Rod Serling is the host of the show The Twilight Zone._

**Disclaimer: still in effect.**

* * *

_"Truth is a whisper and only a choice…Sometimes you choke on the smell"_

_-Goo Goo Dolls-_

Peyton shifted around on her haunches. The muscles in her thighs and calves flared in protest from being hunched over in one position for so long, but she ignored them. One gloved hand held onto the side of the trunk, keeping her balance, while the other stretched to reach her camera atop her kit. Her silver kit. Roughly a few feet from every dimension, it was sturdy and dependable. This one had seen ten years of action with her. It had served her faithfully and she in turn kept it looking brand new. A CSI's kit was vital. It was part of their everyday make up and if they forgot it, they were pretty much worthless. True, the kits held nothing that would be used to analyze the crime scene, but it was still important. The brushes, inks, powders, chemicals, droppers, tweezers, files, and containers were all used to collect the evidence. Without collecting it, no one could process it back at the lab. It was very important to always have their kit. The shortness of her arms made the reach difficult as her fingers fumbled for a moment, her eyes never leaving what was in the trunk, and finally closed over the strap.

The smell didn't bother her and neither did the sight. Unlike others she worked with- Kathryn and Titus who remained on the dock observing- Peyton had no qualms about dead bodies and their decaying putrid flesh. She'd never had a problem with it. At Yale, she had been the only one in their anatomy class that hadn't gotten sick at the sight of the cadavers. It simply didn't faze her; anyone could eventually get used to it and those with a strong enough mind and stomach could learn to block the assault on their sense.

As she viewed the victim through the camera lens, making sure to snap the shots at the correct angles from the ground, Peyton reminisced on how much she loved her job. It was an odd thing really, and had she voiced it out loud, anyone would have thought her mentally disturbed and slightly psychotic. Even she admitted it was disturbing. She loved the way the color of skin changed after death, tingeing shades of blue and purple as blood pooled, and then fading to yellow and green. How fingerprints were like snowflakes, no two alike. How she could recreate a crime scene with a laser and a few tripods and trace the trajectory of a bullet. How with a few presses of a button she could separate someone's blood and tell what was in it. And she loved the victim that lay in the steel trunk in front of her.

She didn't love the fact that whoever was in the box had died. She deeply regretted the loss of life. No, she loved the fact that this was a new case, a new mystery, something for her to ponder. This body would prove to be a challenge, of that she was certain. Already, by just looking at it, questions were filtering through her mind, her internal guide sorting them into their appropriate categories.

She sat the camera aside. The body was too obscured to make out much of anything. The thick layer blocked the true 'body' from sight. The camera and any other shots, besides those of simple procedure, would be pointless until the body was cleaned. It would have to wait until it was on the table and the Medical Examiner was done with her findings.

The boat rocked as another CSI from the lab stepped on. Catching herself from the sudden motion and saving herself from falling in what would be a most embarrassing sight, she waved him off. She wouldn't need him. She could process it herself and was loathe to move from her spot. The body was hers. Her problem. Her puzzle to figure out. Hers. From her peripheral vision, she noticed the other team leader join Kathryn and Titus on the dock. The body commanded her attention again. He could talk with them and if he wanted her he could come over here and get her. That was if he could stand it. She grinned evilly and pondered at how mad the M.E. would be if she reached in and touched it. The fisherman had already moved the body once. After finding it in his net, he had admitted to moving it back into the trunk. She couldn't hurt it too much more.

* * *

"She's gonna do it." 

"No, she's not."

"Yes, she is."

"No, she's not!" Kathryn snorted. She glanced back over at the hunched form of her friend. "Five minutes tops."

"Nah. I give her three. You know how she gets about cases like this one." Titus shot back with a sardonic grin on his face as he bet alongside with her.

"Hey." They both turned at his greeting, their conversation cut short, Titus waving and Kathryn smiling as Don walked down the dock, joining them. "Ms. Nost. Mr. Hatchett…"

"Please, Agent Eppes. Dispense with the formalities. It's just Kathryn and Titus. We're all friends here now."

Don nodded. "Then it's just Don now. So what do we have here? Megan's explanation was a little cryptic over the phone. Said the fisherman found a body in his net."

Kathryn briefly filled him in as Titus was too busy watching the boat. "Anything I leave out, Titus? You were over there longer than me."

Don wondered if the man was ignoring her or if he just simply hadn't heard her. He was enlightened a minute later as the man pointed and laughed. "I win. There she goes."

The agent turned to the boat, their crime scene for the moment. The toxicologist expert had told him that the fisherman had caught the trunk in a net, along with the body, and brought them both onto the deck. According to Kathryn, the fisherman had moved the body back into the trunk, not thinking clearly and believing that he could avoid suspicion if he claimed that he had found it in the trunk. Kathryn had already reprimanded the man. Better it came from her than Dr. Huntzberger.

From his position on the dock Don could see Peyton and the steel trunk, but he couldn't see over the railing and to what lay inside it. He watched confused and wondering why the doctor was wearing a black jumpsuit and had her arm cocked at an angle over the trunk. A moment later and she answered his question. With only the smallest amount of hesitation, she plunged her arm downward.

Kathryn gasped and jumped back, forgetting that she wasn't there. It could have been a trick of the sun's reflection off of the water, but he thought he saw something green rise up and then fall from the addition of her limb.

"Told you so." Titus groaned and then yelled at his boss on the boat in his thick southern accent. "Peyton that's gross. The M.E.'s gonna kill you. Be careful not to mess around too much in there or the D.A. will kill you next."

He was at a loss. Kathryn and Titus were disturbed by her actions, not surprised that she had done it, but rather disgusted at what she had touched. Don hadn't seen it yet, so he couldn't judge what she was doing. He didn't believe she would purposely contaminate the crime scene. That was something that would be completely out of her straight forward, organized, domineering character. Completely un-Huntzberger like. She had turned into a down right bitch when Colby had questioned her and gotten in the way of the missing Keslow case.

But the doctor didn't pause in her actions, nor did she tear her eyes away to address them. "What? It's just putrefaction, with a body that's been exposed to massive quantities of water and chemicals unique to the sea water in this bay. Don't be so ridiculous. I thought we had gotten over this whole problem with mutilated flesh, guys. I mean seriously." Her voice was lost over the cacophony of the wind and the waves. Her lips continued to move as she muttered to herself and then called out, "Would you please care to join me, Agent Eppes?"

It was poised as a question, but still had that underlying tone of a command. Still she had said please, which was a step forward from their first day. He let it drop, sighed at the encouraging smiles from the other two scientists, and boarded the boat, steeling his mind and his stomach.

With heavy steps, Don approached his newest doctor and what she had clearly claimed as _her_ body. She was guarding it as if it was a mound of treasure and she was some great fire breathing dragon. '_She could be a dragon._' he thought. The deck was clean; the captain obviously cared about it. The boat was not that large, in fact it was a small type of craft. There were coils of rope in one corner and over there were the pulleys for the nets. And there was her 'treasure'. An overly large steel trunk rested to one side, lid exposed, and latch undone. It was steel and reminded him of the cases that airliners used.

"You've been forewarned." She shifted around again, giving him more room.

He instantly wished that she hadn't as the stench from the body suddenly invaded his senses. Bile rose in his throat and he hastily swallowed it. His eyes watered and he tugged his jacket sleeve over his nose and averted his eyes. It didn't do much for the smell, it still managed to assault him and he reckoned that he would smell it for days. The smell was simply horrific. He took that back. The smell was terrible, the sight was horrific. It could be worse though; had it been any hotter outside, the heat would have added to it.

The body was bloated from prolonged exposure to the water. Somehow water had leaked into the case, probably from a crack in the bottom. The pressure from sinking to the bottom had caused it to fill, thus contaminating the body. A thick layer of greenish yellow tinged slime coated the victim, obscuring the features; the slime looked as if it belonged in the hands of a giddy five year old, playing with it, instead of on a deceased human being. The thought sickened him worse. Dr. Huntzberger appeared unaffected by the gruesome sight, tracing what he assumed was the chest.

He took a deep breath and began again. "What is it?"

Her arm came out of the slime with a squelching 'pop'. The jumpsuit was removed and kicked aside before she turned back to him.

"What is it?" Mocking his question, she pulled her hair back into an easy tail. "It's a dead body. I thought that was obvious."

He frowned at her. The effect was diminished due to half of his face being covered to escape the smell. "That's not what I meant." Must she always try him?

"You asked. I'm just kidding. The M.E. can't identify much because of the layer of decomposed flesh and water. Exact time of death will be impossible; the exposure to water has acted as a catalyst, bloating the body and speeding up the rate of decomposition. However, knowing this, she will be able to give us a rough estimate after she has it on the table." She paused for a moment and then looked at him. "Whoever did this is a psycho."

Don eyed the body. He couldn't discern much from it. "Why's that?"

An eyebrow arched. "Well, if you would look at it properly… Really it's just a body; there is nothing to be ashamed of. You would see that there is no head." Her index finger made a neat circle. He took a closer look, following her advice to 'look at it properly'. Sure enough, she was correct. The spinal column was barely visible beneath the green layer, but a head was definitely absent.

"Is that something interesting? Why would the head be missing?"

"It's a classic motive. They sometimes keep them as trophies."

"It could be, or not. Maybe he just wanted to cut the head off."

"It could be something that the killer just did. We'll just have to see. At any rate, I'm done here. Did the fisherman give up anything useful?"

He replied that Colby and Megan had talked to him, but he hadn't talked to either of the two yet. They were moving back towards the dock now, and he was grateful to put some distance between himself and the body. He could breath more freely now. The air wasn't as fetid and fowl. Pausing, Dr. Huntzberger gave orders to two transport techs to carefully transfer the body in the trunk to the morgue, without removing it.

The agent was first off the boat and he turned to offer her his hand. She only had one free, the other held her kit. Surprisingly, she took it, albeit with a small look.

"Thank you, Agent Eppes."

"You know, your friends are letting me call them by their first names now." Dear God, was he being nice to her now? _There you go, Donnie. Be nice._ He quickly shushed his subconscious which sounded very much like Alan Eppes.

She took the bait. "Really? Well then, if everyone else is doing it, then by all means who am I to stop them?"

* * *

Don looked up as she knocked on the glass and entered war room. Peyton waved in greeting and nodded, interpreting his index finger to mean he needed a minute to finish his phone call. Her ears picked up on snippets of the conversation; it sounded as if he was speaking with his other agents. Growing bored, she figured she might as well boot up the laptop while she waited. Like a repeat from her first time in this room, the file dropped with an echoing 'smack'. Don rounded at the sound, shooting her a look. Her shoulders lifted in an innocent shrug and he moved further away. Rolling her eyes, she bent down to connect the USB drive with the side port. 

The sound of the regular commotion from the bullpen caused her to turn around, and much to her amusement, caused Don to shuffle closer to the window. The last member of his merry troop of agents closed the door. Sinclair. David Sinclair was his name.

"Dr. Huntzberger." He dropped into a chair next to her kneeled form as she waged war with the computer. Contrary to popular belief, her genius intelligence had not manifested itself into computer intelligence. All of her traps to keep her work hidden on her own laptop had been designed by a paid consultant.

"Brutus and Cassius have reached an understanding without clueing me in. We've decided to drop the surnames. So it would seem that it is now just Peyton. Or Chief. Or you can call me Caesar. I like that last one."

"Ok, Chief," he flashed her a smile full of white teeth. "The M.E. wanted to let you know that she won't be examining our victim until later today. She has another to look at first. But they did remove the body, and take two sets of preliminary prints: one of the body, the other of the trunk."

"I know. I've got them right here. I was just waiting for him to finish his phone call. I've already looked at them downstairs, but I figured that you would want to see them too."

"I'm done." Don reattached his cell phone and took up a relaxed pose against the table. Peyton jammed a few keys, waiting for the tell tale reaction from Sinclair. And there it was.

"Good God. What the hell is that?" David's jaw dropped and he stared openly, fascinated and repulsed at the same time.

"Yeah, well, you weren't there, David. You didn't have to smell it. Is that the trunk itself?" Don pointed to the screen, the object of his question.

"The body looked like something Rod Serling would have introduced." Moving from her knees to the screen, Peyton tapped it and was wholly satisfied with herself when it did what she wanted. "This is the interesting part. The trunk was lined with some type of cloth. The water and chemicals left behind an outline of the body. This part right here," she circled it with her index and middle fingers. "Is an oval indentation that they said could possibly be-,"

"The missing head." Don finished for her, jumping up, excitement evident.

"Right!"

David looked back and forth between his boss and her. He looked to be confused, but she didn't stop to explain and neither did Don.

"But here's the catch. Kathryn said that the fisherman didn't find the body in the trunk. He found it in the net. Meaning that the body fell out of the trunk."

"Right. He freaked out and put it back in."

"Yes. The impression clearly indicates that the head was at some point in the trunk when it was under water. But the head is now absent and we need to find it. I think, and the people downstairs agree, that the trunk opened sometime in between it catching in the net and the fisherman releasing it on the deck. The jostling and friction opened the latch. If we search the nets, I bet you that we'll find a hole. Here's what I think happened: the trunk got caught as the net dragged along while the boat drifted in the bay, it opened, the head flowed away, the body stayed behind, and the fisherman panicked and placed it back in the trunk sans head."

"That's possible. I'll get Colby and Megan to see if they can get the nets."

"We still have a problem. The head. It's currently somewhere in the bay. It could take days to find it; we could try searching in the last spot where he was, but there are too many variables to take into account. The currents, the weather today, the wind, the rate of which the head descended…"

"Variables?" Don grinned.

She cocked her head to the side and cried out in exasperation, "Yes! Variables. Weren't you listening to anything I just said? I don't talk for my health, Agent-,"

"I know a guy." He cut off her off again. That was developing into a habit of his.

"You know a guy?"

"Un-hunh. Come with me." He shepherded her out the door, and she didn't have much of a choice despite her protests of "Who is this guy?" He ignored her in favor of turning and leaving orders for David to try and track down where the trunk could have possibly come from. She glowered. '_Stupid man. Stupid McFed. Knows a guy. Knows a guy, my ass.'_

* * *

Numbers and symbols flew across the board. The hand that wrote them was in the zone. In the numbers zone. Lost in his own world. The images wouldn't slow down and his fingers just couldn't seem to make them reappear fast enough. His curls bounced as he shook his head, pleading with his mind to focus. Lately, it wasn't often that he got this kind of rush for his Cognitive Emergence Theory. He'd been far to busy with other things: his classes, Larry's classes, helping his brother on cases. He needed to focus. He needed to get this thought down. This equation had potential. If he ran with it enough it could potentially cut out a whole section. It would save time and make his work all the more brilliant. He grinned as chalk bits flew. It would- 

SLAM! The sound of a door slamming against the wall and voices reverberating down the hallway brought him out of his world and into this one. It was gone. The images fleeing from his head like water slipping through his fingers. Why had he left his office door open? His customary headphones were in the garage where he had left them last night. In hindsight, he probably should have brought them.

His brown curls shook again as he struggled to reclaim what had been lost. It had been right there. It tantalized him, just out of his reach. Numbers, symbols- gone again. The voices were coming closer and one he recognized.

"You know a guy? Why are we here? This is a college."

"I know."

That was his brother's voice and there was only one reason why he would be here at this time. It meant he had another case. He cast a forlorn look at the chalk writing; they would have to wait. Was it really a quarter till three? That meant he had been in here ever since his noon lecture dismissed, and he had missed lunch. As if to confirm that he hadn't eaten since this morning, his stomach let out a lengthy growl.

He flushed in embarrassment as he looked up to see his brother and a woman in his office, wearing amused smiles. "Don. Hi. Is there…uh…something I can help you with?"

"Lunch maybe? When's the last time you ate?"

"I fail to see how that has any relevance as to why you are here. Common sense tells me that you didn't come here to argue about my eating habits. You do that enough at home." The last part was mumbled.

"Is that so? Well, common sense tells me to eat when I'm hungry."

He opened his mouth to retort but was beat by his brother's guest.

"Ahem." Charlie couldn't make out who she was from behind Don's shoulder.

"Oh. Peyton," he moved aside and Charlie saw her clearly. The blonde hair, green eyes, and height gave her away instantly. He knew that face. He'd seen it featured in journals and had spoken to it on occasion. Her eyes widened in recognition as his did the same, even as Don continued to introduce them. "This is my brother-"

"Dr. Eppes."

"Dr. Huntzberger. It's a pleasure to see you again."

"Like wise. It's been a while."

Don glanced between the two as they shook hands and then spoke, slightly annoyed. "It looks like you two already know each other."

"I told you last night Don that I've met her before." He spoke quietly so that only he could hear him. Charlie didn't want to embarrass himself in front of her, even if it was because Don couldn't remember their discussion last night.

Dr. Huntzberger rocked back on her heels, bringing the focus back to her. "Brother?" she pointed at him and then Don, confusion on her face. "Eppes and Eppes. In hindsight I ought to have seen this. Or at least have made the connection."

Charlie watched in concealed amusement as she rounded on Don. "Oh, seriously. It's not funny. Didn't we come here for a reason?"

Charlie perked up at this. They had something for him. He cast one more dismal glance at his chalkboard. Letting out an internal sigh, he figured that the numbers and symbols could wait. It couldn't hurt; the thoughts were lost for the moment and would only come back when they were good and ready. Besides, he had never worked with Dr. Huntzberger before and he was interested to see if she was as smart as everyone said she was.

Making up his mind, he cleared his throat to gain the attention of the other two bickering persons in his office. "You have something for me?"

* * *

_A.N's: Some stuff to tell today...First thing, I'm leaving for ten days to go and play with the federal government. Weee! No, really. I'm going to D.C. because I have been chosen to be a participate in the Congressional Law and Trial conference. I will be back on the 5th, and hope to have the next chapter up a few days after I get back. I won't have access to a computer, they are forbidding me from bringing my laptop. Assholes. :) So, I'll see you when I get back! And hopefully, my inbox will be full...ah that would be a nice welcome home! Wish me a safe flight!_

_**2nd thing, If there is anyone out there who could tell me what bugs are used to 'de-flesh' dead bodies. that would be most appreciated. Also, I think you can use industrial strength phosphoric acid, but I'm not sure. So, if there is anybody out there with a forensic degree/chemistry degree/ or has a textbook, if they could please let me know. I would be so grateful.** _

_3rd, thanks to my reviewers and those who read this. Much love to you guys! Let me know what you think, and I think we all knew who Don's guy was...I just hope the Earth doesn't spin off its axis with both doctors in the room._


	8. Wunderkind

**Disclaimer: **No. I still don't own Numb3rs. I didn't miraculously come back from D.C. with the rights to Numb3rs. Although that would have been cool.

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the long wait. I apologize. D.C. was awesome. For those of you who know what Mock Trial is, my team won both of our rounds and I won an Outstanding Witness as an Expert Witness award. Judged by people who were judges at the Nationals (college level) this year. My expert witness was a Lead CSI with ten years of experience no less. :) Funny how that worked out. Anyway, without further ado, here is the next chapter. I made up Colby's height where I thought he would be around.

Wunderkind: a child prodigy; one who succeeds in a competitive or highly difficult field or profession at an early age.

* * *

"_I am a magnet for all kinds of deeper wonderment, I am a wunderkind"_

_-Alanis Morissette-_

Blonde strands fell, brushing again against the littered papers. She exhaled upward again, as if they would listen to her this time and get out of her face. They didn't. His visitor stood from studying the papers haphazardly strewn on his desk. Subconsciously her fingers moved, tucking her hair behind her ears, as she continued to focus her attention on the folders and files beneath her. Charlie noted all of these things as he waited for an answer to his question. He was interested in watching her, noting her movements, and comparing this genius to himself. When she didn't respond, he assumed that she hadn't heard him, and repeated it once more.

"Can you read out the last set?" Her head snapped up, taking in him and his chalkboards. Now she had heard him.

She cleared her throat and glanced down. "Which set?"

Hovering his hand over the board, he answered over his shoulder. "The set containing the figures on the ebb and flow of the tide in the bay."

Charlie heard her shift around. After a moment the rustling ceased. "I've got them."

As she read down the list, Charlie made them reappear in white. She spoke clearly, he noted, enunciating every syllable. Lost in his world of numbers he didn't hear her approach over the clack of the chalk in the otherwise silent office. When he finally did notice the extra presence at his beloved chalkboards, he stopped, thinking that she had found something wrong with his work. "Is there something wrong?"

Her lips were set in a small frown, her eyes narrowed at his numbers and symbols. He prepared himself and sighed with relief when she gave a small sideways shake of her head. "No. I know enough about you and your prestigious mind and work to know that you know exactly what you're doing. I have no doubt as to that. I understand some of this. Some of what these formulas and equations mean. I am no novice to higher mathematics; it comes with my territory as well. But, this," she waved a finger. "I don't understand."

Charlie couldn't suppress the small grin that came over his face. He wasn't cavalier or arrogant about knowing more than her. The doctor beside him was not a doctor in the same field as him. She held no masters in applied mathematics or any that overlapped his own. To put it bluntly, there was no competition to be had from her. She could not prove that she was smarter than him in mathematics and statistics, but then again, Charlie could not prove that he was smarter than her in analytical chemistry and physics. Unlike Marshall Penfield, who he always found himself trying to outdo, Charlie only felt the urge to explain his work to her. He was eager to teach her, in hopes that maybe she would allow him to work with her again. To work with _the_ Dr. Huntzberger was as much of an honor as was working with _the_ Dr. Eppes.

Charlie thought for a moment, racking his brain for a suitable way to explain what his algorithm was going to do. What he was doing was similar to what he had done for Don's bird flu case a year ago. He could try to explain it that way. "Are you familiar with kinematics, Dr. Huntzberger?"

"Yes. The motion of an object disregarding the force or mass that brought about the movement. It shows how the position of an object changes with time."

He nodded his head and gestured while he spoke. "Right. So, we are looking for the head of your victim. And by using translational kinematics I can discern where it probably wound up. Think of a surfer. The undercurrents and the flow pull him along no matter how hard he fights it right? Well, your head is pulled along no matter what until it comes to a final resting point. By using these equations, and factoring in the tide, the time, the downward movement of it, its rough weight, and the weather this morning, I can tell you roughly where it will be, give or take a few hundred yards. But it will still pinpoint an area for you to look in, which saves you a lot of time and man power."

"Ok. I believe that. But, how do we know the head is even still in the bay. Is it not possible that it was carried away and out into the Pacific? In fact, is it not entirely likely that that is exactly what happened?"

Charlie mulled this over for a moment, seeking the answer, as always, from his numbers. No, his gut told him otherwise. His numbers would prove otherwise. His numbers never lied. "No. Don said that Megan and Colby asked the fisherman how he fished and how his nets actually operated. His nets drag on the bottom before coming back up. So for our sake, we are going to assume that when the head escaped from the net that the net itself was only a few feet from the bay floor. This means that the head would have floated or dropped back down to the floor. That's what I believe happened and what my numbers are showing," he paused for a moment, a sudden thought passing through. "You'd be better off worrying about a fish eating your missing head."

She turned sharply and gave him a fierce green look. "That's not even funny, Eppes." Charlie wondered how it was that she was able to make her vocal chords growl like a lion's.

Charlie blinked as he watched her move around his office, peering and touching various items. Now he knew why Don said that Dr. Huntzberger was frightening. Speaking of Don, just how long did it take to get something for dinner for just three people? His older brother had been gone for almost an hour now.

Silence filled the cluttered room once again, the only sound being the clacking of his chalk every few seconds.

"To whom does this belong to?"

What now? From the corner of his eyes, Charlie saw her holding a record in one hand, a bemused look on her face. Never pausing in his work, he answered her, hoping she would drop the subject and let him get back to this. "A friend of mine. Larry Fleinhardt."

She didn't. "Dr. Fleinhardt?"

Charlie groaned; faltering for a moment, he resumed writing, thinking that for a genius herself she wasn't very keen on the idea of silence when someone was trying to do complicated higher mathematics. "Yes, Dr. Fleinhardt."

She nodded and replaced the record on his self, next to a stack of folders and a rubix cube. "Dr. Fleinhardt is a good man. Respectable. I've consulted with him and asked for his expertise before. The last I heard was that Larry was in space. That new NASA program."

He was close. He could see it all coming together. "Yeah. Two hundred and fifty miles above our heads. That's where he is."

Charlie was saved from any other questions by the return of his brother. He was grateful. Now he could finish with this train of thought and find the missing head. Without either of them to ask him anything directly, he was able to block out their voices as they murmured to each other. So close. So close. Almost there. And there it was. Almost allowing a 'Eureka!' to escape his lips, Charlie whirled around. In his excitement he startled the two other people. They froze: Don with his straw close to his mouth and Peyton holding a sub in her hand, eyes wide, mouth open. He was fairly certain that he caught the doctor whispering to Don, asking if he always did that. He chose to ignore that.

"I've got it." Outlining a grid on the map with a black marker, he held it up to their questioning gazes. "It's here. Your victim's head is somewhere in this grid."

Their food and drinks were forgotten as they approached him, smiling and speaking words of gratitude.

"That's great, Charlie."

"That's fantastic; it'll be even more fantastic when I have it in my lab."

Charlie grinned, pleased as always that he had helped his big brother and also that he had helped the newest addition. His happiness was short lived though, as Don looked down at his wrist and swore.

"Damn. It's almost seven. No one's going to want to respond to this. I don't have enough weight to get the SAC to put together a diving team at this time."

"You can't, but I can." The forensic doctor pulled a BlackBerry from her hip. Punching a few buttons, she gave them a wicked grin and a wink. "Leave that to me. This is one part of the job I love. Being able to make people do whatever I want at any hour of the day. If it's where he says it is, I'll have it by midnight."

* * *

"You don't have to stay here with me. You can leave. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself." 

"I know."

"They don't really need you here. I'm sure you have better things to do tonight that keep company with me, overseeing a recovery crew."

"Yeah a mountain of paperwork maybe." Colby looked down at his companion for the night. The auburn haired scientist was not nearly as short as her blonde friend, but she was still shorter than his six foot two frame. Though, he found that he didn't exactly mind looking down at her.

Kathryn gave him a smile and then a laugh. "I wasn't exactly talking about you catching up on your paperwork. More along the lines of a date, but okay."

They both shifted their feet as the diving cutter rocked in the bay, water lapping at the sides. They were alone on the boat, except for the captain who remained at the wheel. The three divers were all underwater. Both had adopted stances of wide spread feet and arms crossed against the night wind as they waited for them to reappear.

"Well, the same could be said for you. These people don't exactly need you to watch over them. They can find it themselves."

"No. They don't. But it's better this way. Allows for no mistakes."

"Meaning that Dr. Huntzberger wanted you here."

She smiled again. "No, she didn't. She was going to come herself, but I volunteered. And Peyton's really not a bad person. She's really good. Loyal. Passionate. I've never met anyone else more dedicated to their job. She's taken it upon herself to fight the fight and make this city better."

"Well, when you put it like that."

"Yeah. But she's also very proud of what she does. I won't deny that. Peyton is proud of her title and her intelligence. She's my best friend and a sister. I've known her my entire life."

"Then I'll have to give her another chance, if just for you." He grinned and she smiled out at the dark water.

"Thank you. I think you will be pleasantly surprised."

Silence reigned over the deck until a dark shape popped to the surface. Colby moved forward, helping the diver pull himself on deck and back stepping to give him space. The man sat a round shaped bag aside and removed his mask, speaking as soon as it was discarded.

"We found it, Ma'am. Right where the professor said it would be."

It was Colby's turn to brag. "That's how _our_ genius rolls."

Kathryn ignored him, awarding him only a look and saying thanks to the diver. The diver moved off, leaving them alone, no doubt seeking warmer clothing. She grabbed a flashlight from her belt and clicked it on. With latex fingers, she clumsily undid the knot.

The head was just as disgusting as the body to which it belonged to. Colby studied it as the beam from her flashlight illuminated it in the dark. Ratty strands of hair still clung to the scalp.

"The eyes are gone." She stated the obvious feature, as if she was ordering dinner. He was quickly learning that nothing fazed CSI's.

"Yeah. No doubt eaten by a fish."

She bent down closer, blocking his sight until she was only an inch away from the revolting thing. A second later she pulled back with a grim look as she turned to him.

"No. They were cut out."

* * *

_Dun, Dun, Dun... Another piece falls into place. _

_Review. Please. Reviews are nice. It only takes about thirty seconds to hit the button, type a few words, and hit ok. If I read your story, I leave you a comment. It's nice and is writer courtesy. Thank you. Thanks to those who have reviewed and sorry again for the long wait._

_Anyone want to name our victim? Taking names...now._


	9. Something To Talk About

**Disclaimer: **I own no rights to Numb3rs or its characters. I do own the original characters and such.

**Author's Note:** Ok, so this chapter was especially difficult to write, considering the emotions that surround it. It turned out much longer than I wanted it, but when I was finally done I couldn't cut anything else out. Today's surprise guest is Claudia, David's 'girlfriend' from the morgue. Gomez is her last name, I dug it out from tv dot com.

* * *

"_Maybe they're seeing, something we don't, darlin, let's give them something to talk about"_

_-Bonnie Raitt-_

Peyton sighed as she shifted the clutch down, and pressing both it and the brake brought her car to a stop. Cutting the engine, she parked in Lot # 013, her assigned spot in the underground garage of the L.A. FBI branch. It was safer to park her expensive convertible down below where there were cameras and guards than to chance it out on the streets. She checked her reflection in the mirror, making sure her hair was in place and the color on her lips was smear-proof. Assured that her image was befitting, she gathered her belongings: her shoulder bag that held her laptop and notes, her purse, and her thermos. She left behind the smell of imported German leather to join the metallic tang of the elevators.

The elevator binged on what was her normal stop, the basement, home of her office and the lab, but today she continued up one more level. Peyton exited as it came to a stop, squeezing through two orderlies, mindful not to spill her precious coffee. It was, after all, the only thing that kept her functioning at all hours. Her steps quickened as she navigated the corridors. The air was cooler here. The temperature in morgues was always kept far below normal. This was done for two reasons; one, dead bodies were stored in frigid temperatures and two, the cooler air locked out the smell of the dead better than hot air.

Room one…Room two…Room three…Room four…Ah. Yes, this was the one. Without knocking or waiting for any type of welcome, Peyton charged through, throwing the double doors wide, and grinning as she startled two underlings.

"Dr. Gomez?" she asked, laying a hand on the shoulder of the medical examiner nearest to her.

The man muttered a quick 'over there, Dr. Huntzberger' and bent back down to his task of sewing up the body beneath him. Peyton turned, attempting to discover just exactly where 'over there' was. Dr. Gomez had her body. It was easier than she thought, considering the fact that Dr. Gomez was actually Claudia Gomez, a woman. There was only one woman 'over there'.

Approaching the woman who looked to be somewhere around her age, she asked "Am I correct in assuming that you're Dr. Gomez?"

The potential Dr. Gomez frowned from being interrupted from her paperwork, but adopted a neutral face as she recognized just who it was in front of her. "Yes. And you are Dr. Huntzberger correct?"

"Correct."

The other doctor rose and shook her hand. "It's nice to finally meet you. Call me Claudia. You are a lot better than the last Assistant Supervisor we had. Hateful old man. Sexist too. Believed women had no place in this field."

"Thank you."

"I assume you are here about your Jane Doe?"

"Yes. Have you finished with her?" She followed Claudia to a silver metal table set at the farthest end. A white sheet draped the body beneath, allowing the dead some form of privacy.

Dark lean fingers pulled the sheet off. Now she was exposed. "I finished her last night. The head this morning. I kept her on the table for you. I figured that you would want to see her for yourself and have me go through the findings instead of just reading the notes."

Peyton gazed down at the recovered body. It had been rinsed of the green slime and cleaned. The head had received the same treatment. The body now resembled that of a proper human body, despite the fact that a gaping hole sat where the head was supposed to be attached to the exposed spinal column. The empty sockets gazed up at her, openly pleading for her help. Her own eyes never left them as she talked. "Still no I.D.?"

The other woman shook her head and sadly confirmed what Peyton already knew; no one had called her last night from the office. Someone would have had they of found a name to go along with the body. "No. CODIS didn't turn up anything. Fingerprints, the few that I was able to lift off, were a miss as well."

It took her a few moments to answer. "So she remains a Jane Doe." This girl was no older than twenty. She belonged to someone. Somewhere she had a family. Somewhere somebody was missing her. Were they crying because they had no idea where she was? Or were they unaware that their daughter or girlfriend was even missing? "Her face is in ruins, but we might be able to find something from the missing person's database. Someone had to of known her."

"Poor baby. This bastard did a number on her."

Her eyes couldn't seem to tear away from the sockets. They trapped her. "Right. Run through it."

"Female. From the rate of decomposition I'd say that she's been dead for about two weeks. Sixty six inches tall. Judging by her bones and her teeth I'd say roughly between the ages of eighteen and twenty. The forensic orthodontist agreed with me," she lifted the right arm and then pointed to the thighs, "Abrasions and lacerations on her right arm and thighs. She has two contusions. One is on her hip. The poor thing probably fell down. The other one I found on her head. It appears to be from some type of blunt force trauma, perhaps a fall or the slamming of her head into a wall or the ground. She has a birthmark on the right side of her hairline. The most interesting thing I found was the puncture wounds. They are located on her face and the base of her neck."

"What type of puncture wounds?"

Claudia dropped the arm and looked up at her. Confusion and amazement seeped through her voice. "The ones on her neck appear to be from a needle. The ones on her face seem surgical."

Surgical. That was odd. The spell of the sockets was broken at this news. She looked up at the medical examiner. Before she could speak the woman beat her. "If that is what they are whoever performed them knew exactly what they were doing. They're precise."

"And the eyes?" Peyton turned her eyes to the head.

"They were cut out. Again precisely."

The empty sockets glared up at her, but she refused to be caught up in them again. "What did she die from?"

"Acute myocardial infarction."

"A heart attack?"

Claudia nodded. "She was healthy. No damage to her liver, lungs, or kidneys. The heart attack was more than likely brought on by the stress from her captivity."

"Any toxins found in her system?"

"Traces of ketamine were found in her system. Another substance was found, but it remains unidentified."

Peyton stepped back. "Thank you, Claudia. Store her body in one of the chambers for now." She readjusted her shoulder strap, moving away and towards the exit. Her boot heels clicked against the tile, the sound seeming so much louder in the eerie silence of the morgue. She turned, surveying the sterile environment as she sipped her coffee. '_So silent. So cold. A silent cold graveyard.' _These thoughts ran through her head as she gave one last look to her Jane Doe as Claudia enclosed her in a cold chamber, locking the door with a vacuum like 'suck'.

Fifteen minutes later found her turning the lights on in her office. Five minutes later, after checking her e-mail and deeming none of them worthy enough of a response from her, found her back on the elevator, squeezing in between two people and thanking God that she was five foot one. Only this time she didn't get out on the one above. This time Peyton exited on the floor that was home to the missing persons' unit. She passed the receptionist, knowing exactly where she needed to go. There was only one room on this floor that housed the computers with the missing persons' files.

She took a seat armed with pictures of the 'cleaned' head and notes from Claudia speculating as to what Jane Doe had actually looked like before she was killed and dumped. For the next five hours she sifted through file after file, hoping to find something. _'Two months, not two weeks. Too short. Too tall. Red hair not brown. Hispanic not Caucasian.' _She sighed in relief when her BlackBerry buzzed.

Her hand shot out and caught it as it dropped from the table. "Huntzberger."

"_Peyton? It's Don." _Ah.

"I know who you are." She replied, smiling.

_He laughed softly. __"Where are you at? Kathryn's been trying to find you for the last hour; she has results back on the toxins in Jane's body."_

"I'm on the missing persons' floor. Trying to find a name to match up with the face."

"_Any luck yet?"_

"None-." Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of a picture on the computer. Her conversation was forgotten as she hit the back button, bringing back the picture. _Brown hair, brown eyes, five foot six._ She held the head shot next to the one on the screen. It was a strong match. _Very strong_. There was even the matching birth mark on the right side of her hairline. Her eyes traversed the screen, hunting for the line that would tell her how long she had been missing. Thirteen days. She had been missing thirteen days.

"_Peyton? Peyton? Are you there?"_

She exhaled sharply. "I found her."

"_You did?" He sounded skeptical._

"Yes. The picture matches. The height, the hair, the features. She even has the same birthmark. Her name is Sofia Friedman. Her mother reported her missing after she failed to come home on the weekend and didn't answer any of her calls. It's her. Her mother lives in West Adams."

"_Right. I'll go and talk to her. See if she can confirm that it is her daughter and if she knows anything about why she might have been taken."_

"I'm coming with you." It only took a moment for her to reach her decision and she couldn't exactly explain justwhy she wanted to go.

* * *

"Sofia was a good girl." 

"When did your daughter go missing, Mrs. Friedman?" A soft voice asked, compassion attempting to empathize with the woman.

Don shifted on the couch. Despite the years, he had never gotten used to conversations with the victim's families. No parent ever deserved to have to bury their own child. It was wrong. It went against the laws of nature. He hoped that his father never had to go through that, but with his job it was a toss up everyday he stepped out of the office. Charlie had told him that once. In fact his brother had told him that according to his numbers, Don should have been in the ground by now.

Don turned to the person who had posed the question. Peyton sat next to him, her face a stoic mask. As they awaited the answer to her question, he found himself comparing his partner to the woman on the settee across from them. Peyton was elegant and composed, blonde hair held in a neat bun, purple top and black slacks fitted, and boots rounding out the look. On the other hand, Mrs. Friedman was a mess. She paled in comparison to the other woman in the room. Her shoulders were slumped, brown curly hair frazzled, and clothes rumpled and baggy; it was evident that the woman had lost weight drastically. However, Peyton did not have a daughter that had been missing for thirteen days.

It had surprised him when she had stated that she was going along with him. On his way down to the garage, Don had thought of ways to dissuade her from coming. But she had beaten him there, and when he'd caught sight of her leaning against his Suburban, fiddling with the edge of the file, the reason for not wanting her with him disserted him. Peyton accompanying him didn't seem so bad.

The grieving mother took a shuddering breath. "Sofia went to the UCLA. She was a smart girl. Very smart. She made good grades and always applied herself. Her father and I didn't want her to go there, but she was stubborn. Her father passed away last year and it was rough for the both of us. Sofia wanted to stay home and help me, but I told her that that is not what her father would have wanted. She would have just finished her freshman year," she paused, collecting her thoughts and looked at a photo over the mantle piece, "Sofia was supposed to come home last weekend. She is always there when she says she is going to be. So, when she didn't come home by Sunday and I had not heard from her, I tried calling her dorm. Her room mate Lauren answered. She said that she hadn't seen Sofia since Friday when she left to come home. I called the police and they filed a report, but they haven't been able to find anything. Dr. Huntzberger-"

"Ms. is just fine, Mrs. Friedman."

She nodded her head and then asked in a trembling voice that cracked and wavered. "Ms. Huntzberger, how do you know it is my Sofia?"

Don turned and looked at Peyton. She turned to him and nodded slightly, meaning that she would take this one. Don watched as she turned to look at the picture on the mantle. It was a picture of a smiling girl with the UCLA welcome sign in the background.

"Is this Sofia, Mrs. Friedman?"

When she nodded Peyton gently asked, "May I?"

Too overcome with emotion and clearly not trusting her voice, Mrs. Friedman nodded again. Peyton stood and gently lifted the frame and held it. Her finger traced something on the upper right hand corner. "Did Sofia have a birthmark on her right hairline?"

"Yes."

"I'm truly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Friedman. But our victim has the same birthmark and bears a strong resemblance to Sofia. It's her. Again, I'm so sorry for your loss."

The woman nodded silently and took the frame from Peyton. Seconds later she dissolved into tears. His partner stepped back, looking uncomfortable and retook her seat on the couch next to him. Neither of them said anything for a few moments, Don feeling like an outsider in this home and he assumed that Peyton felt the same way as she tried to look anywhere except at Mrs. Friedman. When she had drawn herself somewhat together Don thought that she could handle his next question.

"Did you talk to your daughter before last Friday?"

"Yes. I talk to her every night."

"Of course. Did Sofia tell you anything was bothering her?"

The woman looked up from her photograph. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"Did your daughter tell you anything that sounded suspicious? Maybe someone was following her? Or somebody was bothering her?" He said, attempting to clarify.

"No. She didn't tell me anything like that. She sounded happy."

Don nodded. That had not helped anything.

"When can I see her?"

He swallowed. How was he supposed to explain to her that her daughter was not what was in that silver frame? "Mrs. Friedman, we'll need you to make a positive identification of the body to confirm that it is your daughter. But we want to warn you that your daughter does not resemble what she used to."

The woman's brows knotted in confusion, her eyes glassy but confused. "What do you mean she doesn't resemble herself?"

Peyton came to the rescue this time. "Sofia suffered extensive and brutal injuries. Her head…," she paused trying to find a way to be gentle about it, "Her killer decapitated her and removed her eyes."

The mother swallowed. Apparently she hadn't done a good enough job of softening the blow. "Why?"

Peyton leaned forward. "We don't know at this time."

Mrs. Friedman digested this for a moment. "When can I get her back, Ms. Huntzberger?"

"When our lab is done with processing the last final pieces and you identify the body then I will release her to you."

"How long will that take?"

"A day or two."

Mrs. Friedman shook her head. "That will not work. I need her body back as soon as possible. It has already been too long. She needs to be buried."

Peyton turned to him as if he had the answers. "I don't understand."

Don took in the woman's face. '_Brown hair, Brown eyes, sharp features, features that resembled his and his families' somewhat'._ "It's part of your faith. Her body is supposed to be buried as soon as possible. You're Jewish." He stated sadly.

She nodded. "Yes."

"You can have her by the end of the day." He gave Peyton a pointed look.

"Of course. I'll personally see to it, Mrs. Friedman." Peyton reassured.

Twenty minutes later after a few more routine questions and more uncomfortable silence found Don and Peyton back in his SUV and headed back towards the office. It was silent with Peyton lost in her own thoughts, glancing out the passenger window.

"Hey. You okay?"

She turned to him, her face full of sorrow. "No. I'm not okay. That woman had to bury her husband a year ago and now she has to bury her daughter as well. It's not fair. And not to mention that we have nothing on this guy. No prints, no DNA. Hell we don't even know where he got her from. We have nothing but a decapitated body and a silver trunk. And we should have something. I should have something."

She had voiced what he had been thinking. He reached over and laid a hand on her thigh. She stared at it and then him, but he kept it there. "I know. But hey, we've got a name, and her roommate. We know where she went to school. That's a start. We'll get this guy. Don't worry. That brain of yours will find something. We'll get him."

She smiled and stared straight ahead instead of watching the buildings and other cars go by. Don smiled too, but only for a moment. He turned back to driving and murmured to himself, "We'll get him. We have to."

* * *

Well? Please, let me know how I did with this one? Please? 


	10. Hot Blooded

**Disclaimer: **All still in effect.

**Author's Notes:** **(1) **_Anonymous Reviewers_: Sylvie: I really appreciate your review, honestly, I want to be pointed out when I make mistakes. I concede the first part to you. But, there is a reason that she had brown hair and brown eyes; there is a reason that all of them will have the same coloring. I recognize what you told me, but there is a reason for it. And, yes Don will be coming up with things himself, because we all know how smart he is; he said that to cheer her up. Thanks again for the review, it really helps me. I look forward to seeing what you say in the future. Newgal: Thanks for yours as well. I'm glad you like her and see she is coming more to terms with everything. I think this chapter will show even more of that. **(2)** _Notes_: Ok, there is a quite a bit that happens in this chapter. For anyone who becomes confused: _anything in italics will be thoughts or the flashback. Anything underlined and in italics is someone else on the other line in a phonecall._ Today's surprise guests: Laughlin (yes, he's back from the fourth chapter) and Dr. Abbott. Manolo Blahnik: a famous shoe designer whose heels are very tall. Very nice for stabbing people with.

* * *

"_Will you be ready when I call your bluff?"_

_-Foreigner-_

Five days. Five days had passed since Peyton had gone with Don to visit Sofia Friedman's mother. Five days and they had nothing new. She sighed and shifted in her seat, lifting her hand to run it through her curls, a habit of hers when she was tired. That was a lie. They had found new information, but none of it had led to anything conclusive. David had finally run down the steel trunk and traced it back to a manufacturer in San Francisco, but the transaction had been paid for in cash. The trail had ended there. No record. No name. Megan and Don had hopped over to the UCLA campus and talked with Lauren Evans, Sofia's roommate. But she hadn't revealed anything worth bearing fruit either. No, they had found answers, just not the answers to any of the questions she was asking.

Megan was gone now, another blow to them; Agent Reeves had been temporarily reassigned. No one on their team had been officially told what their missing friend was doing. However, she still had some contacts in other governmental agencies and it had only taken a few well placed phone calls and promises of future consults to discover that Megan was working on a joint task force with the Department of Justice and was not coming back for quite some time. That was disheartening. Peyton had liked the older woman and was regretting the fact that her expertise in profiling would not be available for their killer. Though, there was nothing she could do about it now; it wasn't her place to make a fuss about it.

She rubbed the tip of her nose and reached for one of the many files on her desk. Her desk was rapidly becoming a mess; that thought irked her. The face of Sofia Friedman stared up at her and she quickly flipped the picture over. Twiddling her pen in between her thumb and index finger, her eyes scanned the lines, hunting for anything or something that would help. _'Toxicology Report: levels of ketamine and high levels of an unknown chemical.' _Kathryn had been working on figuring out the 'unknown' part, but had been unsuccessful so far. _'Cause of Death: myocardial infarction; induced by stress.' _Nothing was helpful there. _'Injuries: minor abrasions; two contusions: one on hip, other on head; eyes completely removed; exenteration; surgically; precise; head completely severed from the spinal column at the base of the neck.' _

There was something that she was missing. Something that was right in front of her. Right underneath her nose. _'Damnit'_ She swore and hurled the black pen across her office. It rebounded against the far wall and came to rest on her rug. It lay there amid the fine stitches and weaves, mocking and taunting her.

She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. Evening out her breathing, she slipped into a meditative state. Hopefully, it would help her calm down and regain focus. '_No eyes. No head. No eyes. No head.' _She chanted. _'No eyes. No eyes. No eyes.'_ Her own eyes, very much attached to her sockets, snapped open. No eyes. That was it. It could be something or it could be nothing, but at this point it sure as hell was worth looking into. How could she have forgotten this? It had only been four weeks ago:

_Peyton walked briskly down the hall, attention solely focused on the paper in her hand. Her co-workers and staff walked past her, giving an occasional wave or greeting. She didn't respond and none of them took it to heart. They knew their boss and knew how she got when focused on something. Peyton would get back to each and every one of them eventually._

_She came to a halt in front of the elevators, deciding that she'd just wait for a lift instead of taking the stairs. She pressed the up button and went back to her paper._

_"Hey, Doc!"_

_There was only one person who called her that. "Hullo, Dave. What are you doing up here?" She asked, smiling._

_Dave Abbott was a young medical examiner at the L.A. Crime Lab. "Getting some notes before I examine the Wilmington body."_

_"Laughlin's new body?"_

_"Yeah. The one he found last night. It's quite odd. The eyes are missing."_

_'That is…different."_

Peyton bolted upright and grabbing her desk phone, punched in the numbers for the morgue over at her old job. It rang and on the fifth one someone answered. "Hello. Put Dave Abbott on the phone. Tell him it's Dr. Huntzberger."

"Yes, Dr. Huntzberger. Hold for one second."

Her fingers drummed against her desk. 39…40…41.

_"__What's up, Doc?__"_

"Dave, I need you to answer some questions for me and rather quickly too."

_"__Anything for you, Doc. Shoot.__"_

"Dave, do you remember the body you examined four weeks ago? The Wilmington body. Laughlin headed the investigation."

_"__Yes. It was found buried beneath a gravel bank.__"_

"You told me at the elevator that day that the victim's eyes were missing."

_"__Yes. Further examination revealed that they had been exenterated.__"_

Her fingers gripped the edge of her desk so hard her knuckles turned white. "Dave, this is really important. How did they appear to be removed?"

Dave fumbled around on the other line. _"__No, Lisa. I'll be there in a minute. Peyton's on the line. Sorry. How were they removed? Let me think…They were precisely cut out. Surgical tools. Finely done.__"_

"Are…Are you sure?"

_"__Yes. Might I inquire why, Doc?__"_

"I can't tell you much, Dave, but I think that your body is connected to a body of mine. In fact, I'm sure of it. Your body was never solved?"

_"__No. It's been left open.__"_

"Dave, don't go anywhere. I'm going to see if I can ask my federal agent if he'll send two of his over there to get the notes and body from you. The body is still stored?"

_"__Yes.__"_

"Good. Thanks, Dave."

She hung the phone up, waited a few seconds, and then punched in the numbers for Don's desk phone. Thankfully, he answered there, saving her from having to hunt him down. "Don, are Colby and David in the office? Good. Can you spare them and have them go over to the L.A. Crime Lab? There's another victim, two weeks prior to Sofia Friedman's death. The eyes were surgically removed in this victim as well and they still have it over there. The murder was unsolved and I suppose no family every claimed the body. Trust me on this."

She nodded in relief as he acquiesced after some further probing and agreed with her. "I'm going to send Titus along with Colby and David. He will be able to get everything sorted out. They need to speak with Dave Abbott; he's the medical examiner who examined the body; he'll have the files and the body to be handed over. I'll join you in the war room in thirty minutes; I'm going to get the digital photographs of the body sent over right now. I'll bring them up there when I've got them."

* * *

"This victim wasn't decapitated." Don stated, looking at the screen. 

"No, it was not."

Peyton and Don stood side by side, going over the stills on the screen.

"This victim wasn't dumped in water either." He said, turning to look at her.

"Not in water. But it was found in Wilmington."

"That's only fifteen miles from the bay."

She hummed in agreement. "Same general area. He's either dumping the bodies around there or he's killing them around there. Or both."

"Right," he paused, considering something by the look on his face. "This one doesn't have as much trauma to it. There are no bruises or cuts. There are only the marks on the neck and around the eyes. Sofia Friedman's are more brutal. More violent. She has bruises, scrapes, and cuts. Plus, her eyes weren't just removed, her entire head was removed."

His words made sense. "Our killer is escalating. He's getting more violent. I'll have Kathryn look over the toxicology report when we get it. No doubt, it will match to Sofia's."

The phone rang, interrupting anything either of them might have said next. Peyton watched from the corner of her eye as Don leaned across the table and answered it with his standard curt 'Eppes'. He mouthed, 'It's Titus', and then placed the phone on speaker.

"Titus." She called out from her spot.

_"The victim is Aaron McCullogh, a student at The University of Southern California. Family's deceased. Brown hair, brown eyes."_

"So, his coloring matches to Sofia Friedman. Seems our killer has a preference, though it might be too early to speculate that. When are you going to be back here?"

"_Well, you see that's the problem and the reason I'm calling you.__"_

Peyton spun around and traded a look with Don.

"What type of problem?"

_"__The McCullogh case was headed by Laughlin and he's playing a little hard to get. He's not accepting my level and signature as enough to get it. Colby and David are working on him, but the nasty little bugger's not budging. Saying that you didn't come here yourself and sign off for it.__"_ Titus fell silent.

Don turned and addressed her. "Is that true?"

She shook her head angrily and spat out, "I could sign for it, but there is no reason that Titus can't. He's a level three, the same as me. This has nothing to do with that and he knows that; he shouldn't be stalling an office higher up on the chain. This has to do with me. He knows I want it and he's just being himself when it comes to me: an ass about it."

"Can you fax your signature over there, like he said?"

"I can do you one better than that." She gave him a small smile. Turning back to the phone, she asked, "Titus, are they in Laughlin's office?"

_"__Yes.__"_

"Perfect. Go down to the morgue and go ahead and get Dave started on prepping the body for transport. I'll take care of Laughlin."

_"__Will do.__"_ The line on the other end clicked.

Peyton waited for a new dial tone and for the third time that day, she found herself punching the buttons on the key pad. Laughlin and she had never seen eye to eye. Born and raised in Los Angeles, Laughlin viewed it solely as his city and hadn't liked it when the twenty one year old east coast smart graduate had relocated to the L.A. Crime Lab. They had both moved up in the ranks together, each trying to outdo the other. Alas, though, Laughlin did not have an I.Q. that was over one hundred and fifty. His smarts came from research and experience. Peyton's had come from her brain, already known. He had been frustrated to no end when he would spend hours trying to solve something that only took her mere seconds. Over the course of ten years all of that had led to a bitter rivalry between the two. The sad part was that when they actually did work together they were a formidable force for any law breaker. She huffed and seriously hoped that this new body would turn up something. She left it on speaker phone and waited. It rang…rang…rang…and rang…until the tell tale click came through.

Without waiting for Laughlin to speak, it was after all his personal line to his office, she started right in, palms braced on the table, voice loud and sharp. "What the hell is wrong with you, Laughlin? You know damn well that Titus is fully qualified to sign off for that body. Any Level III CSI can do that. You and I know both know that this isn't about that. This is about you and me, and I would appreciate it in the future when you have an issue with me that you come to me. Come to me. Don't complain to my team members. Don't take it out on them. Come to me. Now, if you don't release that body in five seconds to Titus, I'll personally come over there and take my Manolo Blahnik and jab it into your jugular and watch you bleed out all over your desk! And if in the off chance that you survive and still won't give in, I'll have one of my boys over there arrest you for obstruction of justice."

Finished with her tirade, she relaxed and straightened up. It was silent and she thought for a moment that the line may have been disconnected. But then came the voice of Colby Granger and both occupants in the room smiled at his words.

_"__Well, you heard the lady.__"_

* * *

Don juggled his keys in his palm, tossing them up and down. Up…Down… He whistled as he walked through the parking garage, moving down the rows to his SUV. The garage was dark, the orange glow from the overhead lights the only thing illuminating his path. He glanced down at his wrist, the hands on his watch telling him it was a quarter past nine. Peyton had called it quits and sent her colleagues home, saying that they all needed rest; Don had agreed. The, the lines had started to blur. There came a point when it was, no pun intended, pointless to continue for the moment. new body had revealed some new information. Most of it matched up with the body of Sofia Friedman, but after hours of studying and questioning 

9:15. Charlie had called and extended an offer for dinner, and a slice of pizza was calling his name at his childhood home. A cold beer and a place to prop his feet up sounded nice. Perhaps he could even find the highlights of a game if he hurried.

A dark figure interrupted his thoughts for his evening. Warily he approached, his years as an agent kicking in. A few more feet and he recognized him. Or rather her. There were only so many people who were that short that worked for the FBI and the hair and heels gave her away.

Alerted to his footsteps, she turned from putting something in her car to face him. "Don. You're leaving?"

His feet stopped in front of her. "Yeah. You too I suppose." He paused and moved around her, noticing the vehicle behind her for the first time. Letting out a low whistle, he asked, "This yours?"

She watched him as he circled the rear. "This? Yeah, it's mine." Pride was evident in those last words.

He grinned at her words and ran a hand along the smooth paint. It was red. A bright flashy red that was sure to catch the eye on the streets of Los Angeles. Two seats, leather interior, three pedals. It was a manual transmission and screamed speedy supercar. He thought it odd that she would have this type of car, but when he thought about it, it made sense; this type of car grabbed attention and she was, if nothing else, someone who commanded attention. He read the back, looking for the model. It didn't look like a normal make. "This is a Porsche?" His fingers tapped the metal as he came back to stand in front of her.

"A Carrera GT. A 2005 make; imported from Germany. It was my thirtieth birthday present to me."

"Nice," he sobered up and then asked seriously, digging his hands in his jeans. "Why did you do what you did today, Peyton?"

Her eyes narrowed and she spoke warily. "What do you mean?"

His feet shifted. "The thing with Laughlin. You didn't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"Browbeat him into submitting. Sticking up for Colby and David. Standing by them. By us. You could have just sent your signature yourself."

"I could have."

It was like pulling teeth. "But you didn't and I want to know why."

She stared at him so long that he began to think that time had come to a stand still. The orange glow from the lights made her eyes gleam like a cat's. "Because I like all of you and once you're part of the team, you're like family. And it's kind of like the mafia. Mess with one of us and you mess with all of us." She paused and swallowed. "And because…on some small level I suddenly find myself caring about what you think of me. I don't know why and I don't know when it started, but it is what it is. So, there it is."

He didn't say anything and after a few moments of uncomfortable silence she stepped back, whispering a "goodnight".

Don watched as the Porsche roared to life, the engine purring in the still of the night. The red lights from the brakes disappeared and he was left with his thoughts for company. He had messed that one up. Screwed it up big time. _'Nice going, Eppes.'_

He bounced his keys in his palm. Up…down…up…down. Something had happened tonight and he had messed it up. But his relationship life had been at an all time low lately. Despite his attempts to hide it from everyone else, the ending of what had existed with Robin and the way it had ended had hurt him. He needed time to think about this.

Up…down… Yeah, that cold beer and a place to rest his feet sounded nice. It sounded really nice.

* * *

_Eh? Please?_

_This is what I call a filler chapter. It just leads into the next. After this one they are going to start to pick up in speed. The ball is teetering on top of the mountain and it's getting ready to come barelling down. The energy is going to shift and we are going to see everyone get desperate for answers. Some patterns have begun to emerge..._


	11. Ways and Means

**Disclaimer: **Anything you recognize, I don't own.

**Author's notes: **Thanks for the wonderful reviews. You guys make me smile. Thanks for the many alert additions I received. Reggie the alligator really does exist and really did grow two feet in Harbor City, Los Angeles. The chicken thing was inspired by a late night conversation. And...I want to say that I am surprised this turned out happy, especially since I finished it at night, when my mind was not in a happy place.

* * *

"_Getting too busy to make amends, I should try to make it right"_

_-Snow Patrol-_

"So, this is it?" Colby cut the engine, peering over the steering wheel at the small hole-in-the-wall diner.

"University Café. 429 Hoover Boulevard," David read off the white slip of paper in his hands. "Yes. This is the address she gave me; Peyton said the L.A. Crime Lab went through Aaron's bank history. The last transaction was made on Wednesday, April 4th at 8:35 pm."

Colby undid his seatbelt, his words muffeled as his body turned. "I don't know how much good this is going to do. It's been a whole six weeks since this kid went missing and then ended up dead under a pile of gravel. I doubt these people are going to remember anything new. They've probably forgotten all about it."

"Yeah I know, but Don said he wanted to go over everything again. Peyton and the others are taking another look at the body and the reports. That leaves us with canvassing and retracing Aaron's last steps." David slammed the door shut.

Colby shook his head and nodded towards the café. "I guess we'll start where he ate his last supper. Brings back memories of my own college days. What about you?"

David laughed. "Are you kidding? Man, I could barely afford to pay the rent, let alone eat out anywhere when I was in school."

-------------------------------------

"It's so sad what happened. Aaron was a good friend. Always willing to help me out with my environmental ethics class. Excuse me for a moment." The girl spun back to the cash register. With a smile on her face, as if their conversation was not about the death of her friend, she rang her customers up and gave them their change. She even added in a cheerful "come again".

She spun to the other side of the counter, back towards them. "Sorry about that."

David nodded and asked, "No problem. Do you remember anything from that night?"

Her ponytail shook from side to side. "I wasn't working that night. Huge statistics exam the next morning. Bianca was working that night, but she already talked to the other detectives. Told them that Aaron came in, ordered a burger, ate, paid, and left."

"And she didn't see anyone follow him? Anything that looked odd?" Colby asked, trying to find something. Anything that would be helpful.

The ponytail shook again. "Nope. She told them that too. But you might want to talk to Mrs. Hernandez. She was the last one to see Aaron that night. He went in to pay a receipt or something. She runs the laundry mat three stores down."

David thanked her for her time and help, Colby mimicking his words. When they turned around at the door she was already back to smiling and giving out change, ponytail happily swinging from side to side. It would seem that after six weeks life had returned to normal in University Park, the death of their fellow student forgotten as they each went back to their own stressful lives of simply trying to stay ahead and pass their next exam.

-------------------------------------

The laundry mat smelled of chemicals and sweat-stained clothes. It was not a pleasant smell and their noses wrinkled as they entered the store, silver bell jingling over head.

"The carts are not to be played with or to leave the store!"

A frazzled, middle-aged, Hispanic woman- presumably Mrs. Hernandez- jumped out from behind a row of washers, barking at them and wielding a rather deadly looking broom.

"We're not here to take a spin on the carts, Ma'am." Colby said, his palms extended outward against the raised broom in her hands.

The broom was lowered as she eyed them. "Sorry," she sat it aside and walked back to the counter, swinging her head to eye what few students were in the store, "These hooligans cause more trouble than their quarters are worth. Is there something I can help you boys with?"

She moved behind the counter and bent down to retrieve a stack of receipts.

"Actually, there is something you can help us with, Mrs. Hernandez. About six weeks ago a boy disappeared and was later found murdered. We were told that you were the last to see him." Colby stated, trying to gain eye contact with her.

Despite his efforts of bobbing his head up and down, she didn't look up to meet his gaze. Hoover Boulevard was a busy place it seemed. She continued to read the receipts, every few seconds laying one to the side as she spoke. "I already talked to those other police officers about that."

"We're not police officers, Ma'am. We're with the FBI. The death of Aaron McCullogh is part of an on going investigation. We just want to know what happened that night and what you remember."

She made a clucking noise from somewhere in her throat that reminded him of the chickens his neighbors owned back home in Idaho. Those chickens had been mean; chickens that liked to poke little eight year old boys on the feet. He had decided back then and there that he didn't really like chickens and would much rather eat them. "FBI, hunh? He was a good boy. Didn't play with the carts. He had pretty eyes. Doe eyes. He was in here that night. Paid for a receipt that he walked out on a few days earlier. I do repairs as well. Nice boy. Most students would not have come back. Hooligans the lot of them."

"So, he was here that night?" he asked, amused at her obvious disdain for the college students that seemed to plague her store.

"He was here. Around 9:15. Or maybe it was closer to 9:30. I don't remember. It was somewhere in between there. But it was definitely before 9:30. That's when my show comes on."

Colby grinned and then asked, "Did you notice anything else?"

She looked up for the first time, receipts forgotten as she licked her lips. "He paid and left. He was one of the only ones in that night and I was up front when he left. I was putting up a new sign. He walked across the street and took a turn into the alley right over there," she pointed out the window in the direction of the alleyway. "A lot of students use it as a shortcut back to the campus. A few minutes later a black car pulled into the entrance. I didn't see anything after that."

"A car? Did you see anything? Anyone?"

She shook her head. "No. The phone rang. I had to answer it. I told those police officers about the car, but they didn't seem too interested after I told them that students park there all the time."

He nodded. There was only one other thing to ask. "Do you have a camera for surveillance, Mrs. Hernandez?"

She laughed at him. "Cameras. As if we could afford those." She shook her head at him again.

Colby nodded, exchanging a look with David. Well, they could only have hoped.

They said their thanks and left Mrs. Hernandez to her receipts and immature college students.

* * *

Peyton was not hiding out in her office. Huntzbergers did not hide. She had just chosen to do her work in the basement instead of upstairs. And it was not because she was avoiding Don Eppes because of last night. Because she wasn't. Not at all. 

The pad of her thumb brushed lightly against the wheel of her iPod, changing the song. Some song of Bono's came on, the lyrics wailing in her ears.

The orange light on her desk phone lit up and she tugged one ear bud out and picked up the phone.

Pressing the talk button, she answered with a pleasant tone that was noticeably forced. "Speak." Her thumb hit pause after a few seconds as she listened and her other hand grabbed a pen and the stack of post-its. She folded the phone into her neck, saying, "Hold on. Repeat that last part…Are you sure? Right…Yeah…No...Thanks." She returned her phone to its cradle, writing furiously on the yellow sticky note.

Finished copying the address, she tore it off and raced out the door. Ten minutes later found her bursting through the doors leading to the outside walkway and wishing that she wasn't running in heels and a leather skirt. Her feet were going to hurt like hell later.

She skidded to a halt, standing on her toes, searching for him. Someone in the bullpen had relayed to her that Don had stepped out with his brother to grab lunch down the street. Apparently she had just missed him and stupid her had left her phone downstairs in her mad dash.

Her eyes spotted the curly hair of the shorter one first; those curls were a dead give away. "Don!" she hollered, relieved when he heard her the first time and turned around.

The three of them met in the middle, her hands trying to keep her hair out from her face as the wind whipped between the two buildings. Charlie smiled at her and said 'hello'. She returned the greeting and turned back to Don. Her face must have given it away, but then again he was a smart man. His eyes shot to the post-it in her hand and he asked, "I'm not getting lunch am I?"

She shook her head. "No, sorry." The two of them stepped a few feet away from Charlie, who looked on curiously from behind his brother. "Another one. LAPD found it."

"Right," he sighed. "Well, I guess we need to get over there."

She handed him the address. "Mm-hmm. We could really use his help too, if it's okay with you. I think he could probably find something we're not. He sees things differently than I do. A new perspective could help." She said softly, nodding over his shoulder to his brother.

He looked at him too. "Yeah. He's real good at doing that."

* * *

Peyton was crouched down in the ditch, amid the dirt and their newest victim. Don hovered above, watching and waiting, not quite ready to venture down there yet. "Well?" he called out. 

"It's definitely one of our guy's victims. Same markings, same coloring. You can come down here and take a look yourself." She shot back all brisk and business like. It seemed that Peyton was upset with him over the events of last night. Or, he speculated, if her professional demeanor was anything, she was trying to avoid the subject and not talk about it. "…Reggie the alligator is not going to come out and get you."

At the challenge in her words he joined her, his feet sliding a bit on the loose topsoil. "Didn't they catch Reggie?"

"No. Last I heard he got away. They said he grew another two feet though."

He crouched down beside her, copying her stance. Her fingers traced over the body, gloved fingers pale against the backdrop of the dirt and dark clothing on the body. It was a boy, around the same age as the others too. The eye sockets were empty once again. A cut marred his forehead, blood congealed. The blood was no longer a pure red. It was mixed with dirt and other things that he couldn't name. Another cut peeked out from underneath the collar of his shirt, jagged and long. It was deeper than the one on his forehead, but cleaner. He watched as she reached over the chest and lifted his left arm. There was air where his hand should be.

"His wrist was cut off?" he asked, not believing what his eyes were seeing and what his mind was telling him.

"Not cut off. Amputated. There is a difference and this guy apparently knows what it is." She shook her head and carefully laid the arm back down, being mindful of the dead. "Medical Examiner says he's been dead for about twenty four hours."

He peered out over the ditch at the surrounding area. "Harbor City is still in the same area as Wilmington and the San Pedro Bay. He likes to stick around here. What I don't get is why he continues to dump the bodies. We're finding them. They're not in very good hiding places, except for Sofia Friedman's body. Is he trying to show them off? Seeking attention for what he's doing?"

They were out of the ditch now, and walking back up the pathway they had come down. Two other CSI's passed by them, nodding as he greeted them. After a moment she answered his questions.

"No. I don't think so. He doesn't want attention. It doesn't feel like that. No, he's ditching these bodies because it doesn't matter if we find them. He's cleaning up after himself so well that it doesn't make a difference when we find them. He leaves nothing behind for us to trace. It's all we can do to even find the names of these victims. Face it, we've got three bodies now and are nowhere closer to finding this guy than we were four weeks ago. He dumps them after they die because it doesn't make a difference. Not a damn bit of difference."

He stopped as she continued towards his Suburban. He watched her as she walked. Last night he had used that cold beer and a place to put his feet up to think about her words. His mind could have interpreted it wrong, but she had made it seem that she was interested. And after careful consideration, and weighing the scales, he had come to the conclusion that he was interested as well. He liked her and was interested in knowing just who she was.

Peyton turned around, taking notice that she was alone and cocked her head to the side. "What are you doing?"

He shook his head; not hearing her words, he came back to the present and said, "Sorry?"

She gave him an odd look, clearly implying she thought he was weird. "You went into your own little world on me."

"Sorry about that. Just thinking." He jogged and caught back up to her. His fingers crept to the back of his head, running through his short hair. "About last night-"

Peyton stopped and turned to him. "Oh. Look we can just ignore-"

He rounded on her and interrupted her. "No, you look. You got to talk last night. Now it's my turn."

Peyton looked affronted for a moment, but didn't say anything. Don continued on, "I shouldn't have ended things last night like I did. I should have said something, but I didn't. I should have said…that I care what you think about me too."

An eyebrow rose as she stared at him, understanding what he was implying. Whispering, she said, "Don't say that. Don't say that unless you mean it. It changes everything."

The CSI from earlier walked past them, eyeing them as he picked up on the fact that something was transpiring between the two of them. Don waited until he passed and said firmly, "I do mean it."

Her foot scuffed the ground. "So…what does that mean?"

"Mean? It means you let me take you to dinner."

She grinned at him. "You're asking me out while we're talking about the mutilated corpse of our third victim?"

"Well, when you put it that way, it's not nearly as romantic."

They were walking again. Peyton rubbed her chin thoughtfully and then declared, "Dinner…Hmm… You can take me out as soon as we catch a break in the case."

He came to a halt. She had said yes. He gave himself a mental high five and swore he could hear his father congratulating him as well. Imaginative Alan said something along the lines of 'finally and it's about time.' All they needed was a break in the case. Wait-

"A break in the case? With the way things are going, that's going to be never."

Peyton stood on the running board of the Suburban, one hand holding the door open, the other resting on the top. "In that case we better find something."

* * *

_Hmmm?_ _Review..._

_So, I don't know when exactly I will have the next chapter up. My grandfather passed away last night and my mind is kind of running in some pretty dark places; I'm trying to come to grips with it, and help my younger sister as well. I'll try to have it up soon. _

_Next time: we get three new breaks as Charlie comes up with something, Peyton comes up with something, and Don comes up with something. The car that Mrs. Hernandez saw will come back, so don't forget it._


	12. The Sign

**Disclaimer: **see previous chapters. Too tired to come up with one.

**Author's Note:** I'm not a science major/genius/expert. I've tried to stick to reality as much as my own research and questioning of professionals has allowed. So, please, just take it with a grain of salt. This chapter answers a lot of questions and reveals the true nature of the crime and the killer; I want to say that I am not some sick person devoted to this kind of 'expermentation' or anything like that. The idea revolts me that it could ever possibly be done. This idea came to me in a history class a year and a half ago and I thought it would be more original slant to a crime/killer. Anyone who can figure out what the nature of the killer is before the end when it's revealed is a smart cookie and wins. Also, I know they told us what Charlie's fav. color was, but I don't think Don's was ever mentioned and everyone read the Treasure Island when they were little, or know of it. Charlie's back, and here to stay, so I hope that pleases you-- ;) I know you were waiting for it. Also, thanks for the wonderful comments... It's so nice to know that you guys care.

* * *

"_I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes, I saw the sign"_

_-Ace of Base-_

"That's not possible," Peyton stated, shaking her head emphatically as she leaned against the table. "That cannot be what it is."

Kathryn looked at her with a mixture of astonishment and indignation on her face. "Are you doubting me now?" She responded humorously.

Peyton shook her head at her friend again; she had not meant it like that. "No. You know I have the utmost faith in what you do. You have gotten rather good at it over the years," she gave her friend a sly grin. "But methylthionine chloride? That's too common for us to miss and not pick up on for this long."

Kathryn nodded and leaned over the table to the tan microscope. Adjusting the lens with a few minute turns, she moved back and indicated for her to look. "I know. But I put the trace sample side by side with a normal sample from our stores and that is what it is."

Holding her hair back with one hand, Peyton hovered over the piece of equipment. The dye, more commonly known as methylene blue, stared back at her from under the light. Next to the left slide was the trace sample from the body of David Elium, their third and latest victim. There were slight variations between the two, she noticed, but it definitely was what Kathryn had concluded.

She pulled back, satisfied but still brimming with questions. She crossed her arms and was about to speak, but her words died as Kathryn beat her to it.

"There are two reasons that I've come up with as to why we are just now able to identify the chemical; Daniel agrees with me as well. One," she said while holding up one finger, "We were actually able to lift a true trace sample from the third victim's body. And two," another finger joined the first, "You noticed the slight deviations between the two slides, right? That's because it is there. The dye has been mixed with another. I think it is either methyl blue or methyl violet. That's the reason why the system didn't kick anything out from just the regular report. Once you have it under the slide you can tell what it is, but a hybrid of the two dyes makes it harder for the system to catch it… Especially if we don't have a good sample."

Peyton nodded in agreement. "That makes sense." Her gaze wandered back to the microscope and slides.

"It answers the question as to what it is, but it raises another: why is our killer injecting his victim's with dye? It serves no purpose." Kathryn mused aloud, more to herself than for Peyton's benefit.

Despite not being intended for her, they sparked something in her mind. The wheels began to turn. Methylthionine chloride was used for many things. Mainly in the two fields of chemistry and medicine. However, there was one thing that it had been used for in the past. That had been over sixty years ago, and had not been seen since those dark days. Days in which the cold air was filled with the dying screams of innocent victims. If she was correct, it would be horrible that this use of the dye was not a thing of the past. But she was fairly certain she was correct. She had paid special attention in that class at Yale; for all its morbidity, the scientific part of her mind had been enthralled by the subject. In fact, that particular textbook just so happened to be in her office. _'The fourth shelf up on the black bookcase, second book to the far right.' _The more she thought about it, the more it seemed to fit in with everything else about this case. It was like a puzzle with a thousand pieces to it and the puzzler not knowing before hand what the picture was. You couldn't see the entire picture or the big piece until you put all of the smaller pieces together. Only then did everything fall into place. _And with that textbook_, she feared, _everything would fall into place_.

Uncrossing her arms, she snapped her fingers and moved out the glass doorway of the room, calling back to the toxicologist as she left, "Unless he's not interested in killing his victims at all. Call a meeting upstairs for ten minutes from now. For everyone if they are all here." It was still early, only 11:30. Perhaps the agents were all still in the building.

"Alright. The McFed said his brother was working on something for us too. Maybe he finished it."

With heavy footsteps she turned a corner and turned the second doorknob, pushing open the door to her office. She didn't bother to turn on the lights, and neither did she pay any attention when the door slammed into the wall. Instead she made straight for the bookcase at the end of her office. _1…2…3…Fourth one up._ Peyton ran her fingers across the spines, letting them trail lightly over the glossy covers. Stopping on the one she wanted, her body made a sharp turn towards her desk.

The heavy volume made a dull thudding sound as it landed amongst the wood and papers. The spine cracked easily, splitting down the middle, and she began turning the pages. Faster and faster she went, getting closer to the back of the book and closer to the chapter dealing with the twentieth century. Peyton slowed, switching to letting her fingers skim down the lines. Her eyes flickered from side to side and she thanked whatever powers that be that her brain was capable of reading and processing around eight hundred words a minute.

Her throat caught and the genius momentarily forgot to breath. Peyton had found what she was looking for and as she read and re-read the lines, trying to prove that they were not what she was seeing, she wished they were indeed wrong. For once the genius would have rather of been wrong.

With fingers slightly trembling Peyton grabbed a highlighter from the group of pens and circled the portion of the page that had her lungs constricted and heart chilled. This was wrong. All wrong. It belonged in the past and didn't deserve to be resurrected or brought back. They had worked too hard to see it erased from practical science and medicine. She didn't like the big picture. If she could, she would go back to the smaller one and choose the simple murder route. Unfortunately for her, she couldn't…

* * *

They had taken over the conference room. Taken it over completely. Staked a claim, and to his eyes it didn't look like they were planning on relinquishing it anytime soon. At least not until their case was closed and a done deal. With his new findings he hoped he could help them with that. The pictures had been disturbing to say the least and he didn't want a fourth face to be added to his data collection. 

Charlie held onto his laptop tightly, looking for somewhere he could set it down without having to worry about never seeing it again or it being subsequently eaten by all the papers that littered the room.

"You can just move those files into that box right there, Charlie," David said from behind his own stack of papers, smiling at the anxious expression he could feel on his face.

The door opened, letting in the noise from the bullpen, and Charlie turned from placing his laptop on the table to see his brother holding it open for Colby and two other people he had never seen before.

"Oh, hey, Charlie," Don offered as a greeting, coming to stand next to him. "What are you doing here? Did you find something already?"

His eyes followed Colby and the other people as they circumnavigated the room, taking seats wherever they could. His natural curiosity took over and he wondered why they were in here. He figured they must be doing something for the case, but they didn't look like FBI agents. The air they carried themselves with was, for lack of better words, an educated and intelligent one, as opposed to a tough and dangerous one. The curly haired genius cleared his throat, hooked the correct cables to the computer and answered with, "Actually I did find something. With the new data you gave me from last night I was able to work through it and I made some discoveries that I think you're going to like."

"Excellent, Charlie. Anything you've got will help," Don said, giving him a warm smile that made him beam on the inside. He loved helping his older brother, something that had not changed over the years, from the time when they were children to now. Don followed his side glance to the still unidentified people, reading the question in his eyes. "Oh. Charlie this is Kathryn Nost and Titus Hatchett; they work with Peyton. Kathryn, Titus, this is my brother, Charlie."

Kathryn gave him a quiet "pleased to meet you, Dr. Eppes" from beside Colby, Titus waving as he said a less formal greeting of "hey". Charlie nodded and responded with a "hello".

The door opened again, admitting the last member of their group. The blonde doctor held a rather thick looking textbook in her hand; turning his head he made out the title: Medical Experimentation: a Look at Human Atrocities throughout History. What was even more disturbing than the title was the lack of awareness in her expression. She seemed lost in her own thoughts, something he knew he did often when he was swept along the tide of his numbers. Her lack of regard for her surroundings became ever more apparent when she took a few steps forward and immediately tripped over one of the boxes in the room. All of their eyes flew to her and his brother stepped forward, grabbing onto her elbow and easing her up before she fell completely.

"Sorry. Apologies for being the last one here," She said, shaking her head as if to clear her mind and bring herself back to reality. Charlie eyed her as Peyton took a seat at the table, Don sitting next to her. He followed the look that passed between the two, wondering, '_When did Don get that close to her? Wasn't he just saying a week ago that he couldn't stand to be around her?'_

"We didn't start without you. Charlie was just saying that he found something. Isn't that right, Charlie?" Don swiveled in his chair to face him.

He cleared his throat again. "Right. How your killer is picking and finding his victims has been a mystery to you until now. Coincidentally he is using our own technology against us. With the data from the three victims I went looking for any commonalities between them. However, the amount of data in itself was too large; things like when they woke up and whether they brushed their teeth before or after eating are unimportant. Using data mining…" he took in their confused looks and backtracked, "Data mining sifts large amounts of information and sorts through the data, picking out things that are instrumental and pertinent as it goes along. If you remember, I used it for that home invasion case you had a while back," Don and the other two original members of their team nodded, remembering the case he was referring too; the three others had knowing looks on their faces, clear on what he was talking about. "So, I created an algorithm that went through the three sets of information and found out just how your killer is targeting and finding your victims."

Charlie hit a few keys on his laptop, bringing pictures of the three victims to the screen. He pointed to each as he talked. "All three of your victims are college students. Your first victim, Aaron McCullogh, attended USC. Sofia Friedman was a freshman at UCLA. Your latest victim, David Elium, was a year away from graduating with honors from CSULA."

David shook his head and protested, "But, Charlie, we already know that. It just means that he goes after college students. Young people."

"Yes, but I bet you didn't look into all of the extracurricular activities that the students were a part of. When the algorithm found this I dismissed it earlier, but after looking at it again, I believe it is exactly how your killer is finding his victims," he hit another button, bringing up information underneath the respective pictures. "Aaron McCullogh was participating in a joint study with the Hebrew Union College on the history of Judaism in the Middle East in the twenty first century. Sofia Freidman was an officer of the Jewish Student Union for UCLA. And David Elium was an outspoken activist for the Jewish Muslim movement on his campus," he shook his head again, staring at the faces on the screen. "Your killer has only to visit the websites of the universities to find these people, and with today's technology it's all too easy."

Don nodded. "Right. Good. We already had an idea that he was targeting people with Jewish ancestry or involvement. So he has a vendetta for killing these people."

For the first time since she had first arrived Peyton spoke. "He's not meaning to kill them."

Charlie halted, shocked by her statement. For that matter so was everyone else in the room. Everyone stared at her, confused by her declaration.

Peyton cleared her own throat and repeated herself, louder. "He's not meaning to kill them. Kathryn, explain what you found."

Everyone turned to the auburn haired woman who Don had introduced as Kathryn. Charlie cocked his head to the side, interested in where this was going. "I was able to identify the unknown chemical that has been found in all of our victims. A trace sample was lifted from David Elium's shirt. The chemical is methylthionine chloride mixed slightly with another dye. It's more commonly known as methylene blue, not to be confused with methyl blue. Methylene blue is a dye that is used in a wide range of scientific fields. In chemistry it can be used as a redox indicator and also to test for Ph. As a dye it is used to stain DNA and RNA to see how much nucleic acid is present. It can also be used for many different things in medicine." She finished, looking back at Peyton.

The forensic expert opened the textbook to a page with a circled section in bold yellow. "In 1943 a German medical doctor arrived at the Auschwitz concentration camp in southern Poland. While he was there, Dr. Josef Mengele became known as the Angel of Death as he performed inhumane medical experimentations on the prisoners of the camp," her voice dropped to a low whisper, disgust and revolt dripping from every word. "One such experiment involved injecting methylene blue into the eyes of prisoners in an attempt to change the iris' color to blue. None of them worked. It caused extreme agony and more often they were killed after it failed. He's not meaning to kill them. He's trying to experiment on them and raise a long dead practice that has not been seen for sixty four years. Human experimentation was done long before War World Two. It dates back to ancient times with Ptolemaic kings who dissected their prisoners. It became an almost extinct practice after the crimes committed at Auschwitz. Almost being the key word. Some cases continue to reappear today, one such being the rumors of unethical studies being conducted in North Korea. Our own government even performed experimentations; the CIA was involved with that. However, in light of our victim's missing eyes and such it would appear that our _scientist_ fancies himself as this century's Dr. Mengele."

The room was quiet with her revelation. No one wanted to speak, each trying to digest what she had said. When no one said anything, she continued. "He does not want them to die. He wants to perfect them and wants his experimentations to succeed. My guess is that he killed them afterwards, after it failed. I doubt he regrets the loss of life, only the fact that the dye didn't take. Although Sofia Friedman died from a heart attack induced by the stress of her captivity, the other two died from blood loss from wounds inflicted upon them. The ketamine is used to subdue them. It makes it easier to kidnap them. If given a high enough dosage it also acts as an anesthetic, rendering the person completely unconscious."

It was silent for a few more moments. Charlie was stunned. He knew everything that she was talking about. The Nazi human experimentations committed at the concentration camps and carried out on fellow human beings had been horrendous. It was stunning what had been done in the name of science. This idea of a twenty first century Dr. Mengele was far worse than a serial killer. It was all the more worse that he was experimenting on these people. No…not people. Students… Kids barely old enough to drink. Kids that were the same age as the ones that he taught everyday.

"So, you're telling me that we have an insane doctor who believes in the Aryan idea of a super race, running around somewhere in Los Angeles performing sixty year old human experimentations on college students?" Colby asked, still not believing what was being revealed.

"Yes. That is exactly what I am saying."

"So how do we find this bastard?" Titus growled through a thick southern accent.

"I've got an idea as to where he is, but it's a large area." His brother stood, and moved around, searching through the papers for something. Don picked a few up out of the hundreds, seeming to find the ones that he wanted. "Ah. Here it is. All of our victims have been found along the coast. Near the San Pedro Bay area. Wilmington and Harbor City are all part of the same South Bay area bordering the San Pedro Bay."

"That doesn't necessarily mean that he is in that area. That could mean that the bodies are dumped there. It doesn't mean that he's there."

Don turned to address Peyton's assertion. "No it doesn't. But, a mold native to Asia does. The container ships that come in to dock at the Port of Los Angeles can carry mold transported by rats."

"So? What does that mean for us?" Titus asked, drawling out his words.

"Penicillium marneffei was found on David Elium," Don pointed out on one of the sheets. "It's a mold native to Southeast Asia and is transported by rats. You told me you found that. That means that David Elium had to of contracted it somewhere around the Port and not near Harbor City. But that area around the San Pedro Bay and the Port is a huge area. It would take days and the department's full resources of man power to sweep the entire area. And I doubt he's somewhere in plain sight."

Charlie moved forward, a thought coming to his mind. "Not necessarily. There are only certain areas that he can be in. He's limited to places where he can remain undetected, like you said, and places where he can get the resources that he needs. I can take a look and using probability can determine the likeliest of places that he would be."

"You can do that?" Titus asked.

Colby nodded his head. "He can do that."

"Good, Charlie. Anything you can come up with before this guy takes another person." Don said, rising from his seat to approach him.

Charlie nodded, wanting to help the best he could. He could do this. He could find where this guy was and glancing back at the screen, hopefully keep a fourth from joining the rest.

* * *

Don waited, standing in front of her door, holding two white bags and wondering why he was nervous. He was a grown man for God's sakes, and no woman should make him feel this nervous. As a matter of fact, he couldn't remember being this nervous since high school. Swallowing hard, he knocked and opened the door, entering her office. 

Peyton was behind her desk, reading something on her monitor. What caught him by surprise as she turned to smile at him was the pair of black glasses perched on her nose. She caught his look and reached up to take them off. "Yeah. My contacts tend to hurt my eyes after glaring at a computer screen for too long. Is that food?" she asked, her nose wrinkling slightly as she sniffed the air.

He grinned, hoping that she would go for it. "Yeah. You did say I could take you out for dinner when we caught a break. I'd say we got a pretty big one today. But, Kathryn said you weren't budging from down here tonight, so I brought it to you."

She stared at him for a moment and he regretted his idea, until she smiled again, rising from her desk. "So, I did. Very creative of you, Agent Eppes. Clever."

The glasses came back on and she motioned towards the couch against the wall. He handed her one of the bags and she peered inside. "A club sandwich on rye? How did you know that's what I eat when I work through the night?"

"A lucky guess?" Peyton raised an eyebrow and he added, "I might have had a little help from a friend of yours."

They were both seated on her couch now. She was relaxed, her feet tucked underneath her on one end. He lounged on the other side.

"Well, it's the thought that counts. And it was nice of you to make sure that I ate." She said, smiling around her dinner.

It was silent for a few more minutes, each of them eating their own respective meals. Neither of them had eaten anything for lunch.

"Favorite color?"

"What?" He asked, confused.

"What is your favorite color? Mine's red. As you can probably tell by looking at the walls." Peyton said, pointing around her office with one hand.

He looked around, noticing for the first time that her office was colored in shades of red, black, and silver. They were warm colors, the red not bright, but darker. More of a burgundy shade. "Navy. Navy blue is mine," he looked back at her. "Book?" He said, going along with their questions to get to know each other.

"_Alice in Wonderland._"

He burst out laughing and she threw a chip at him, hitting him square in the forehead, crying out in indignation for him to explain "what is so funny".

"No…It's…Uh. I would have thought you would have picked something more scientific. Not a children's story about a girl's adventures with insane made up characters. But, now that you mention it, you do have a grin that looks like the Cheshire Cat's." He picked the chip up from where it had fallen on his shirt and ate it.

"My father used to read it to me. Before I got older and was given more _scientific_ things to read. Besides, what's yours?"

"I used to be a fan of _Treasure Island _when I was younger, but uh…not anymore"

That Cheshire Cat grin spread over her face before she laughed and said, "Grand adventures and pirates. Isn't that... how did you put it... juvenile?"

They both laughed and Don grinned. His idea had been good and she had gone along with it. As they sat there, playing their game of twenty questions, he couldn't help the fact that despite the looming threat of the neo-Nazi killer he was the happiest he had been for a long time.

* * *

_Ok, so I spent seven straight hours on my laptop to finish this and get this up before I have to be back at school tomorrow, So kind of please leave me something to know how it is; it's late, and my AP Calculus notebook is damning me from across my room; it wants to know why I haven't studied the Unit Circle. _

_Also: You guys get to decide on a scene. Without giving too much away, would you rather a) have the scene where the person is attacked or b) have it where the team finds the place and processes the scene. You guys decide and vote on it. E-mail me or leave it in a review. It's up to you; everyone do it, even people not registered here. You just have to hit the button down there. Newgal, don't give it away.. :)_


	13. How Far We've Come

**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own the canon characters; I do own the original characters_

**Author's Notes:** _Everything I've written for the past three days has been crap. But, I suppose a funeral and a service will do that to you. But...I'm better now. And as my AP Statistics teacher used to tell us when we complained and argued: "Quit your bitching, and pull through it. What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger."_

_I'm pulling out my creative license. Just to let you know._

* * *

"_It's gone gone baby it's all gone, there is no one on the corner and there's no one at home"_

_-Matchbox Twenty-_

"So, what exactly is this?"

The Mississippian native raised his head from his workplace to his dark haired companion who had posed the question. Don Eppes had joined him downstairs; why the man agent found mold fascinating when it wasn't part of his job was beyond his comprehension, but Titus had no problem with him. Don was fair, honest, and a good leader. He had a passion for protecting and serving the people that was not seen nearly enough in law enforcement these days. Besides he was easy to talk to and he was nice, not to mention Kathryn had told him that there was something going on between this leader and his own.

"Penicillium marneffei is a mold native to southeast Asia. It can be carried just like any other typical mold or fungus. Rats are the most common of the penicillium marneffei, particularly bamboo rats. Nasty little creatures," he answered, adjusting the slide and examining the mold. Rats were nasty creatures. Back home, he and his friends, had used to shoot them for fun. He rolled to the right, making room for his guest to see.

The agent slid from leaning on the table to look through the microscope. "And this can be carried by the rats on the container ships? Meaning at some point the body of our third victim came into contact with something or someone that was around the Port with this mold?" Don asked as he looked at the slide.

Titus nodded, even though he couldn't see him. "Exactly. But this mold grows where the environment is warm and moist. The environment in the area surrounding San Pedro Bay is a perfect breeding ground and judging by the activeness and growth of the trace, it makes it probable to assume that our guy is still somewhere in that area. The farther you move away the less ideal the environment and the less active the mold is. Meaning no more growth."

Don leaned back, pondering for a moment and then said, "Right. The Port of Los Angeles was built as a wharf. The railroad later cropped up around the area. Wilmington was originally an industrial town. There are plenty of old abandoned warehouses and buildings around there. It would be a perfect place for this guy."

"And a perfect breeding ground for our mold."

"Let's just hope Charlie can help us find out just where and soon." Don sighed, running a hand through his short dark hair.

Titus grinned. "I hear 'ya."

The agent's cell phone rang and he stepped away, holding up a hand to excuse himself from their conversation.

Titus went back to his report, eavesdropping and watching as Don talked. Going back to his earlier thoughts and Kathryn's words over coffee this morning, he supposed that Don was all right. True, Peyton was a grown woman who was capable of making her own decisions, but the two of them had taken to looking after their friend. The woman had once come to work with the flu and refused to leave until Kathryn and he had filled out the leave of absence form themselves and forged her signature. Their genius could be so stubborn sometimes. But, if Kathryn was okay with Don, then he supposed he was okay with the man as well. Kathryn was ultimately the final judge, having known her for all of her life.

"Something wrong?" He asked as Don reattached his phone to his belt, interpreting his facial expression.

Don shook his head and then added in a voice in direct opposite of his words, "No. Nothing. Just my boss wanting to see me."

* * *

Colby removed the highlighter from his mouth, eyeing the chew marks in distaste. He couldn't remember when he had picked up that habit. Probably around the same time that he had traded his job on the front line for this one which incidentally sometimes involved reading over boring files and listings. 

"Hey, David, do you think the new shipment of Ford parts received three weeks ago is of any importance?"

David didn't bother to turn around at his question. "Does Ford have anything to do with selling chemicals or items that can be used as medical supplies, Granger?"

Colby pondered the thought for a moment, having not meant his question as anything but sarcasm, and responded cheekily, "Probably not."

"Then that's a no."

He went back to studying the inventories. Furniture and electronic part listings from China and Taiwan went on in a never ending cycle.

"But I can tell you what is of importance, Granger. After this, I don't want to ever read about container ships and their cargo ever again," David said after a minute.

He nodded. "Agreed. If we have to read through these again it will be far too soon."

"Hey, Colby, David. How's it going?"

Colby wheeled to the right, turning to face the source of the new voice, and tossed another packet into the box near where her feet now stood. Their newest doctor had come around the corner to stand in between their two cubicles. "It's going nowhere," he stated and reached for another stack.

Peyton looked at him and then over at David. "You too, David?"

He laughed quietly as his partner made a grunting noise from his hunched over position.

She smiled and rested her chin in her palm, elbow leaning against the top of the glass shield. "I'm sorry, boys." She didn't sound the least bit sorry in his opinion, certainly not with that smile on her face.

"Yeah? If you were really sorry you'd come over here and help sift through these listings." Colby looked over his shoulder, his face falling as she let out a short bark.

Peyton shook her face in her palm. "I don't really do that anymore. It's good to be second in command. Then you don't do those things; other people do them for you. That's the natural order of things. Just think, one day you'll be able to get other people to do it for you. But, I would help you guys out, since I like you and all. However, I'm taking a look at another case this morning. I just returned from the scene in Beverly Hills."

Colby turned back to her, noticing the black vest over her blouse. He had only seen the doctor in the CSI vest one other time; she didn't wear it often, probably having to do with the fact that while not nearly as heavy as their flak vests, it was still bulky and awkward.

Colby was about to come back with another one of his clever replies, convinced that with one more he could reel her in to help, when a young agent joined them at her side. He recognized the younger man from upstairs in the cyber division, as well as one of the agents who dealt with the press and the media.

"Dr. Huntzberger?"

Peyton straightened, her hand falling to her side, and turned. "Yes. Can I help you?"

The man nodded and answered curtly, "The Assistant Director would like to speak with you upstairs."

"Very well. I can be up there in ten minutes, there's something I need—"

"No. He means now."

* * *

Assistant Director Merrick, of the Los Angeles FBI, watched as his forensic Assistant Supervisor and one of his finest agents gazed at the television screen in his office. They sat quietly next to each other, their hands gripping the sides of their chairs the only indication that something was troubling them. Their faces were masks, unreadable and stony. His eyes flickered to Agent Thomas who was not watching the screen but their faces. Merrick had asked the young agent with a history of dealing with the press to assist with their problem. 

His gaze went back to Eppes and Dr. Huntzberger. He was pleased that the two were finally cooperating and working together. Both were as stubborn as mules, and had fought for the first few weeks. Frankly, he hadn't had the time to deal with their petty problems about bureaucracy and who was the alpha male on the team. The Director had an entire branch to run, in a dangerous city no less, and he couldn't afford to have two of his best employees fighting with one another.

"How did this leak out?"

He met the gaze of the scientist, reading the anger in the harsh set of her jaw and eyes. "That is what we would like to know."

"We?" She asked.

Merrick waved a hand to the other agent positioned behind them. Eppes and the doctor craned their heads around to look. Eppes nodded at the fellow agent, but the doctor merely looked him over and then turned back to him. "Agent Thomas is here to help us determine just what should be released in a statement. What we want to know is how this happened."

She shook her head at him, puzzlement replacing the anger. "It was not anyone on my staff. Only a few have had direct access to the specifics of the case, and they would not speak of this. As for the rest of the members on our team, I think Agent Eppes can attest to the fact that none of them would have done this."

Merrick turned to Eppes. "Is that true, Eppes?"

The agent nodded and said, "Yes, sir. Neither of my two agents would have done this or had the opportunity to do this."

"This reporter was able to catch you on location with the third victim," he searched the paper on his desk, hunting for the name. "…David Elium. The footage doesn't reveal anything of the body itself, but she did catch it being transported. She also has information on the second victim found in the bay area. Which leads us to believe that somebody leaked information about it."

They were silent after his words, neither of the persons in the room knowing what to say or wanting to offer anything. The high pitched voice of the reporter filtered through the speakers and around the room as she continued on with her news report.

_"…And another victim was found near the San Pedro Bay area. It has been reported that this victim was murdered in the same manner of the victim found in Harbor City. No official statement has been made about this sudden rash of violent murders…"_

"Perhaps, it is possible that since the body of Sofia Friedman was found in the San Pedro Bay that this reporter gained her information from some of the workers there. It's a public place; she could have talked to anybody from there and got what she wanted. In my experience, reporters know just what buttons to push to get the information that they want. As for the Harbor City scene, if she was in a good enough location, she could have overheard any of us talking about the logistics of the case. Reporters are like roaches. Sneaky and never staying gone no matter how hard you shoo them away. But, the question now is how much do we release," Dr. Huntzberger said, a speculative infliction in her words as she turned in her chair.

Agent Thomas stepped forward for the first time. "That is the question. Say too much and we risk starting a city wide panic and general fear of a serial killer who goes after victims that match about one million of the people in this city. Say too little and we look like we're hiding things. It's a fine line and one that we are going to have to tread carefully. Director Merrick has set a conference for three this afternoon, where you, Dr. Huntzberger, will deliver a statement about this case. Hopefully, it will reverse the damage that this reporter has already done."

-------------------

Ryan Thomas stood on the step above the podium and microphones. His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for anyone that stood out among the reporters and spectators. No one had struck him and caught his eye yet. The Director and he had hoped that maybe the press conference would draw the killer out; at least to see how much they really knew about his operation. It was a ploy that sometimes worked and sometimes didn't, but they were willing to try anything at this point.

He shifted his gaze back to the speaker behind the podium. Dr. Huntzberger had been perfect when answering the reporters' questions. Not giving away too much, sticking to the perimeters of what the Director had cleared to be released, and staying cool when the reporters had turned from vague politeness to annoyed and frustrated. _At least this press conference had been good for something, _he thought. It would keep the news media off their backs about hiding and covering up things.

Dr. Huntzberger finished her final answer for the conference, stating that it was over and thanking them for their patience and time. She stepped back and gave him a pointed look before striding back into the building.

With his face turned to watch her exit, he didn't notice the man in the crowd that moved and weaved to watch her leave, eyes never leaving her blonde hair. If he had of caught him earlier, he would have noticed that the man had never let his eyes leave the doctor as she spoke. The man, who Ryan Thomas didn't see, waited until she was inside and then slowly slinked back into the crowd, dissolving and disappearing at once, as if he had never been there.

* * *

She was tired. After answering questions repetitively fired at her for ninety minutes by rude and annoying reporters, she had found herself completely fed up with humans and any form of interaction with them. The press agent had not been helpful either; Agent Thomas had remained his stiff and curt self, hovering behind her the entire ninety minutes. She didn't like when people hovered around her. It made her nervous and more than likely stemmed from the fact that she was so short. 

Peyton grabbed her towel from the counter, folding it over the silver rack, as she left her bathroom. Her bare feet smacked across the tile, shuffling as the cool floor changed to plush carpet, and came to stop at her bed. Her hands pulled the black tee over her head and over the long sleeved gray shirt; quick fingers looped and piled her fair hair up onto the top of her head.

She suddenly paused in her actions, hands frozen around her head. Cocking her head, Peyton waited, straining to hear. She could have sworn she had heard something. Kathryn was out late for the night, so it couldn't have been her. It didn't come again, but the hair on the back of her neck prickled and a feeling of unease washed over her. Caesar didn't make a noise like that.

'_It was probably nothing, Peyton, _she convinced herself, _you're tired and hearing things.'_ As the seconds ticked by and nothing came again from the downstairs area, she shrugged her shoulders and dismissed the thought. A nice glass of merlot would calm her nerves and do wonders; it certainly was needed after a day like today.

The bottle called to her from the kitchen, her feet moving down the two flights of stairs in the townhouse. She flicked on the lights, moving across the marble and around the counters.

Moments later, with a full glass of wine, she moved down the hall, toward the couch and television. Later she would recall that the only thing that warned her of what was about to come was Caesar. She halted as her vision landed on her giant Maine Coon ten feet in front of her. His back arched as he hissed, tail lashing, fur standing on end. He let out a yowl, and it took her a second to understand that Caesar wasn't looking at her, but something behind her. A faint whistling noise reached her left ear and she quickly spun around.

Peyton let out a scream and acted upon her first instinct, lashing out at the man standing right behind her and throwing the full glass of wine into his face. The man growled and cursed as the glass shattered, sending shards and fine wine into his eyes. The red liquor ran down his face, dripping like blood between his fingers as he clutched his eyes. Startled, she moved backwards, trying to do the only thing that came to her mind: getting away… getting far away.

Her feet stumbled over something and she tripped and fell backwards, falling hard onto the wooden floors. She raised her head to see the brown and white streak of her cat running from the room. A groan from behind her regained her attention to the man that had invaded her house. She was up in a flash, trying to remember where her gun was. It was on the couch where she had tossed it on her way upstairs. Humorously, her memory remembered that she had worn it ever since this morning's crime scene, only taking it off after getting home.

By this time, the man had wiped his eyes clean. Warily Peyton backed away from him, inching slowly towards the couch only a few feet away. She was mindful of the situation. So far, she was the only one with a gun. Still, she weighed somewhere around a hundred pounds and this man was definitely twice her size. Her thoughts jumbeled together as her emotions ran rampant and out of control. Her brain dredged up what she had learned in training and what to do in situations like this. _'Remain calm. Keep the upper hand. No sudden movements. Keep your distance. Get away._' Unfortunately for her, he was currently blocking both exits. "Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my house?"

He snarled at her, moving forward as she backed away. "Stupid bitch. You weren't supposed to know we were here. Damn cat." His arm made a slashing motion and she noticed the syringe in his right hand. That had been the whistling noise she had heard. Filled with ketamine, he had been trying to knock her out.

The man lunged forward and she darted away, fingers grabbing the cold metal butt of the Glock as she passed by. With a roar that frightened her, he flipped the end table over, sending it into the wall.

Her fingers tightened her grip, nails making quick work of the safety. Her arm raised and leveled the weapon at the man's chest. He wisely froze at her movement, stunned and shocked. "Don't move," she commanded, shuffling away and towards the nearest phone. The intruder didn't move, raising his hands so she could see them. She was safe now… She had the gun…She had the upper hand… Now, she could get somewhere…. They could bring this guy in and find the others… No more deaths… No more…

Her body twisted and she yelped as someone grabbed her neck from behind, clamping and grabbing for her arm. The gun discharged, firing wildly off somewhere in the room. She twisted and struggled around. Rolling her eyes upward she saw another man behind her. The thought of another intruder hadn't even crossed her mind. He too held a syringe in his hand and was already bringing it to her neck. She twisted again, hoping to break free. Entered intravenously ketamine only took two minutes to render a person devoid of any movable functions. With her body mass it was bound to be less than that.

It didn't help. She was too small and not nearly as strong as the man holding her neck. Kicking backwards with her leg and swinging her right arm holding the gun, she tried anything to get loose. She clawed and scratched anywhere she could get her hands on, refusing to go down without a fight. The second man only clamped her arm tight to her side and increased the pressure on her neck. Stars swam in her vision as her lungs constricted. The force of the needle entering her neck made her cry out again. Vaguely Peyton wondered if she screamed would anyone hear her. Apparently it did nothing because no one came to her rescue. The first man lunged forward and she managed to get one good kick as he jabbed the needle into her arm. It dislodged, only entering half of the liquid. But one and a half syringes were good enough.

She swayed and the man released her, both of them moving back and she stumbled away. The Glock slipped from her fingers as they lost their strength. Her body bunched and clung to the wall. The two men stayed back, knowing that she wasn't getting anywhere now. It was too late. Her ears caught snippets of hushed words. The anesthetic made it jumbled, a side effect of the drug, but she still heard "press conference", "reporters", and "right one".

_'Fucking Agent Thomas…Fucking reporters…'_ She thought as her body fell to the ground.

Her vision swam and the colors of the painting above her swirled… Red…Blue…Green…Orange…

And everything faded to black…

* * *

_See that is why you shouldn't be smart... And there is a reason why it has to be her... It was supposed to be another, but after long deliberation and consulting, it had to be her. _

_If there is anything you guys want to see or feel I can improve on... let me know. You guys have been wonderful as to that. _

_I hope not to leave you guys waiting this long for an update... Especially with this ending.. But, your reviews do make me go faster. _

_Medical lesson: Ketamine is an anesthetic. And given the right dosage, it can be used to get high, and sounds become very distorted as you hear them. Given a larger dosage and considering your body mass, ketamine can cause you to become completely unconscious. _

_CSI lesson: Contrary to CSI, forensic people don't often wear those big black vests. Whether or not they carry a gun is up to the department they work in. I would assume that those who work for the FBI and are in the field a lot, would carry a gun. _


	14. 24

_Many thanks to those of you who added me to your alerts... Don't be shy to leave a comment too. :) And... Where did Guardian go?_

_No rays of sunshine to be found in this chapter... If you can get your hands on the song for this chapter (24 by Jem) by going to YouTube or something, it is well worth it. The song fits wonderfully with the hurt and angst... Bring on the darkness. _

_Italics either symbolizes a person's thoughts or a flashback. _

* * *

"_In 24 hours they'll be, laying flowers, on my life…"_

_-Jem-_

Every minute counted now… Every single second counted… He could hear the fictional grains of sand as they filtered down from the top of the hourglass to the bottom.

He blew through an intersection, shoving down on the gas as the light changed from green to yellow. Brentwood, where he had just come from, was a far ways away from Pasadena and his brother's house.

Don switched lanes, jockeying between two cars doing the speed limit, jumped ahead, and looked up at the buttons overhead in his Suburban. For the fifth time since he had left he contemplated turning on the blue and red flashing lights. At this point he figured it wouldn't make much of a difference. The Suburban was already doing forty over the limit with his foot rooted to the pedal. Plus, no police officer was going to pull over an SUV with government issued tags, not that he would stop anyway. Turning the lights on would be pointless.

Swearing loudly, Don lifted his right foot for the first time, slamming on the brake. In turn, the brakes locked up and the vehicle halted abruptly, throwing him forward violently, seatbelt catching across his chest. He straightened, glancing left and right to make sure all was clear, and eased past the stop sign and through the intersection. His mind was in shambles; he'd already switched to autopilot, trying to remain professional about the whole ordeal. _But it was so very different when it was one of your own. So very different. _

He replayed everything he had seen in her townhouse. The speedometer inched forward again, the orange arrow steadily climbing, the engine humming and switching gears as it pushed forward. The citizens of Los Angeles out on the prowl for the night life blurred, not even registering as his mind focused on Brentwood and what they had found inside, trying to put the pieces together and formulate the next step.

_'His entire being was instantly aware of the impending silence and stillness of the once full home as soon as he crossed the doorstep. The air was heavy and thick, choking with a palpable atmosphere that made his stomach clench and muscles tighten._

_He stumbled slightly to the left against a small table, the shock of seeing the yellow tape and wrecked foyer disrupting his equilibrium. Glass and wood crunched under his feet as he side stepped around the CSA's processing the scene. No words were spoken. The house remained empty and silent. When Don did catch any of their gazes, their looks were full of anxiousness and sadness, and also a look of helplessness. As if the answers to the questions their gazes were seeking resided in him. He had no answers for them. He had no answers for anyone_

_The living room was a wreck. His eyes swept the room, the federal agent coming out and making sense of what he was seeing. An end table lay smashed against the wall, dark wood splintered. Pictures and figures were disrupted, crooked wherever they lay. She had put up one hell of a fight… that much he could tell. He had expected that. There was no way she would have gone without some type of fight. It wasn't in her. Turning away he noticed one of the techs bagging a gun similar to the one on his hip. At least she had tried to use that. _

_Don's hands clenched, knuckles turning white. One by one his feet dragged on the wood moving painfully slow. He was honest and would admit to himself that he didn't want to face what was around the other corner of the couch. Colby and David had not arrived yet, but there was someone here. Someone who had been the first one to call for help. Someone he knew would be hard hit by this. He didn't know if there was anything he could do to help her. Hell, he didn't know if there was anything he could do to help his own self. _

_He found her crouched on the carpet in front of what appeared to be the entertainment center. Her auburn hair was disheveled; clothes from her night out still on, but looking warn and old now. He noticed the tear tracks on her cheeks as she turned to face him._

_"He won't come out." _

_"What?" he asked, coming closer to her._

_Kathryn shook her head, shock evident in her voice. "Caesar. He won't come out. I've… I've been trying for the last twenty minutes to get him to come out. But he… just stays here. They won't let me do anything… And… I just need something to do." Her voice was soft and breathy, choking on air between words._

_Caesar turned out to be a rather large looking brown and white cat he discovered as he bent down beside her. Kathryn's face was frozen and still. No emotions could be seen. Don held out a hand to the cat, fingers outstretched in a friendly manner. The cat ignored him, turning luminescent eyes from him to the one-step-below-catatonic woman next to him._

_"Kathryn… What happened?" _

_Their gazes remained on the cat, not wanting to give in and look at one another for fear that they would see their own faces mirrored back at them. "I should have been here. I shouldn't have gone out. I came home and it's what you see. She wasn't here. The downstairs was trashed. Her gun was still here. She doesn't even have that with her. It was him; I know it was. Lock shows they came in through the garage. Didn't even take the Porsche or mess with anything else," she shook her head again. "I shouldn't have gone out."_

_Don gripped her shoulder. "Kathryn there was nothing you could have done. You would have been in the same position or worse." _

_Her fingers scraped at the wood. "Still… it's nice to think that."_

_She was broken he realized. Paralyzed by the fear that her best friend had been kidnapped and was dead somewhere. She needed something to do like she had said. Something that would keep her occupied. They all needed something to do._

_"Kathryn," Don said, calling her name and pleased when she turned to him, "You said 'it was him'. How do you know that?"_

_She blinked a few time, her face relaxing and coming out of the state she was trapped in. "There was a syringe found. I don't need to test it to know that it's ketamine. Caesar has it. It's under his front leg, but he wont move and scratches every time I try to get to it. I don't want to hurt him… We've never had one of the syringes before. A print could be lifted." There she went. That was what she needed. Her brain was switching over to the task at hand, something he had already done._

_He made a soothing noise to the cat; Caesar lifted his ears and turned to look at him. Letting out a yowl it inched forward, coming out from underneath the cabinet to rub against his knees. His back paw kicked out the sought after syringe. The needle gleamed in the light. It was such a small thing. Really it was. It didn't look nearly as dangerous._

_"Our neighbors across the street saw a car. A black one. Matches the description of the one seen on Hoover Street. Neighbors didn't hear anything, but thought it was odd. They are an odd bunch themselves," she gave a wry laugh. "Always thinking we're up to no good when we come home late from work. They didn't see her, but they saw two men."_

_Kathryn suddenly reached forward with a cloth and picked the syringe up. She stood and left him, moving towards the techs on the opposite side of the room. Wondering what she was doing, Don angled his body to see her face. It was still a blank slate, but there was something else there now. Determination maybe? Or wonderment._

_"Our neighbor has a photographic memory. He sees it once and remembers it. I wonder if he remembers the license numbers and if anyone has talked to him yet." She left, clutching the thing that had been Peyton's downfall, moving farther towards the front door and away from him._

_Caesar let out another yowl, softer this time, gazing up at him. Even the cat wanted answers. Don petted the soft fur of the great Maine Coon and gazed around the house. The silence reigned, closing in and pressing down on all of them. It was empty… so empty.'_

The scenery rushed past, trees replacing the buildings and lights as he drove farther and farther away from the downtown area. His mind moved at the same pace as the blurred trees. He was confused, not about the case per say, and what they had found tonight. He was already working on that, his own self and Kathryn's coming up with several options. The men had become sloppy this time in their rush to grab the doctor.

Don flicked the high beams, not wanting to blind the car coming towards him. No, he wasn't confused about the specifics of the case. He had been a federal agent long enough to know every single twist and turn; he could examine this from every possible angle and arrive at the same conclusion. No, Don was confused about what he was supposed to be feeling. Peyton wasn't his best friend, like Kathryn. She wasn't someone who had worked for him for several years, forming a bond so strong that nothing could come between it except for ultimate betrayal. She wasn't a lover of his; he had only been on a 'date' with her once, albeit they had both enjoyed it. At best she was someone that had joined their team that worked well with them, had come to be a member of their integral unit, and was someone he really liked. That left him with conflicted thoughts. How was he supposed to feel? That question nagged at him, and what exactly was the answer to it? It seemed that none of them had any answers tonight to the questions that never seemed to end.

* * *

It was silent in the room. She had forgotten how quiet the graveyard shift was. After all it had been several years since their team had worked the tired hours and late nights of the graveyard shift. Phantoms of people moved down the halls, printing documents, examining evidence, and comparing notes. She watched them all from her seat. 

Kathryn pulled her knees tighter to her chest, suddenly finding the red color of her toenails the most fascinating thing. The screen let out a beep, and she raised her eyes long enough to press the enter key, telling it to move on. She went back to looking at the chipped polish. She didn't need to watch the database sort through the millions of license plate records to match with the partial one that Mr. Turner had provided and the description of the black car.

Her face lowered to rest on her knees, hair swinging from her bun to shield her face from the ghosts in the lab. Tears wouldn't come and they didn't need to come. Her job was to sort through this mess of evidence and find their fourth victim before it was too late. In the absence of Peyton, Kathryn was the lead CSI on their team.

But Peyton wasn't just their fourth victim. Peyton was her friend, the closest one she had, closer even than her five other siblings. She was one of the people she loved most in this world and was her sister, no matter what their blood said. Kathryn had been with her forever: When they were five years old and starting kindergarten for the first time, Peyton already smarter than most of their teachers; when they graduated from high school, Peyton fifteen years old and valedictorian, Kathryn sad for leaving all of their friends; when they had gone on to Yale, hell bent on getting away from their families only to find by the second hour that the glamorous college life was not so glamorous. Kathryn had even followed her out to Los Angeles. She could remember countless nights spent talking about the most irrelevant and stupidest things. Memories of dancing the Macarena and the Electric Slide when they were little flooded her being. But for all of their silly things that they had done over the years, she would give anything to be able to dance the Macarena with her sister in the kitchen again.

Arriving home after a late night with a friend of her father's, Kathryn had been horrified to discover what had awaited her in their home. Her friend was gone. The one that had stood up for her her entire life, the one that had championed her every move, believed in everything she had ever dreamed, and been there when she had needed her the most, was gone. Now, she was in the hands of some deranged doctor. _A doctor whose victims were experimented on and tortured until they died_, she reminded herself. Peyton had been through many things over the years. It came with the territory. One did not take a job in their line of work and not toe the line of death at least once. But this was not like the time that Peyton had been caught in a heavy line of crossfire during a bank robbery scene in which one of the assailants had only been hiding out in the back. For one, she had had a gun that time and about fifteen trained officers to back her up. She was alone now.

But she didn't have to stay alone. No one on their team was going to take this news well and that source of anger and drive would only cause them to redouble their efforts and work harder to catch this bastard. They had the vehicle provided by Mr. Turner's photographic memory and they had two viable prints from the syringe. Don had already left to find his brother, Charlie, and put a rush on the genius' probability work on the potential locations. They would find him this time. They had too. As Yoda had said, and Peyton quoted, 'do or do not'. There was no try. They would; there was no other option. She refused to lose the one person that understood her the most in this world. She absolutely refused.

With a stronger sense of conviction and will than before, Kathryn raised her head from her knees and boldly steeled herself against the phantoms outside the room and the ones inside her. As if it was a sign, the computer beeped, signifying a match. Her fingers hit the print button and her heart sent out a silent prayer to wherever their lost friend was, praying that she would be given the strength to ride out this nightmare until they could bring in the cavalry.

* * *

Water… her face was resting in water. About an inch it felt like. It was cool…and tasted horrible. She blinked once, twice, and inhaled, choking as the liquid rushed into her nose and mouth. Weakly she tried to raise her head. It was heavy. Everything about her body felt heavy and lethargic, as if she was weighed down. So weak, barely making it an inch off whatever she was laying on, her head dropped back down. The puddle beneath her was foul; she could smell it and something in her mind knew the name of what was making the water foul. But she couldn't connect it and the name remained stored away. 

Lifting her hand to touch it, she discovered that her hands wouldn't obey the command. Twisting them she found that her wrists were bound… by something rough that scratched and chaffed. _Rope maybe? _Her legs refused to obey any form of command either, ankles bound by the same scratchy material. Again, she knew what it was but couldn't name it.

She couldn't remember how she had gotten here. For that matter, where was here? Her vision was blurry; all she could see was concrete and the rough outline of shapes. She didn't exactly know why she was here. _Surely it was not a place where she would have wanted to be._ But she did know that she wasn't supposed to be here. Something about it didn't feel right. Something inside her knew that. Fear brewed from somewhere deep inside. _This was wrong. All wrong._

She was… _Who was she?_ She was alarmed to discover that she couldn't even remember her name. That scared her too. _People were supposed to know who they were. Why couldn't she remember her own name? _Like the other things around her that seemed so familiar, her identity remained just out of reach of her mind. Tantalizingly close and yet so far away.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, finding them cracked and split. Her eyes closed again, struggling to remember anything, trying to force her head to follow her commands. _Nothing… There was nothing. She was alone… _

_No, not alone. _Faces rose before the back of her eyelids. Even though they too would not come, she knew them despite the fact that she had no names to match with them. They were warm and comforting to her and chased away some of her fears. _Sharp emerald eyes— that matched the ones she knew she had— paired with a warm smile that he only gave to her... White teeth that gleamed in a full smile as the person gazed with respect… A clever and sarcastic grin with witty looking sea green eyes… A penetrating gaze that looked past you to see what was inside you… Curly hair that bounced while he spoke with such excitement that it radiated outward… Grey ones in a face that only ever gave kindness and respect…And a pair of deep brown ones that crinkled in the corners when his mouth lifted upward. _

The last two burned the brightest in her mind. She couldn't explain why, but as the darkness drew her back in she held tightly to those two, wrapping them around her. They were the only source of light to be found in this darkness.

* * *

_Can you name everyone Peyton saw? The white teeth might be hard, but you have to remember it from a few chapters back. One you have to guess and use what you learned in Biology class. _

_So... the question is... What happens now?_


	15. Invincible

**Disclaimer: **Any canon characters are the property of the producers at CBS. I only own the original ones. Adding to my collection are Maria Perez and Ricky Garza.

**Author's Notes: **Thanks for the comments guys, keep them up. They let me know some of you still believe in me. Two Pat Benatar songs for this story.

_How about a little emotion to get the ball rolling?_

* * *

"_We can't afford to be innocent, Stand up and face the enemy"_

_-Pat Benatar-_

A knock at his door brought him out of his silent reverie. Tearing his gaze from the glossy photo, Charlie turned, seeing Amita and gave her a wide smile even if his thoughts did not necessarily reflect the happy expression.

"Are you still working on the case for your brother?" She asked, coming around his messy desk to face the chalkboards beside him.

He looked over at her and answered, "Uh huh. I've been applying probability algorithms to try and discern the location of where the killer is…. I'm running into some problems. It's proving to be more of a challenge than I had anticipated. And then this happened last night, and Don's on me to try and hurry."

He had run into problems. The probabilities his math had provided had all been too low. None of them had seemed right or even made any logical sense once he had checked them with the maps of the San Pedro area. Charlie had run into a brick wall and had been forced to stop and reevaluate his data. Something was not right about it, and Amita had walked in on him trying to find just what that anomaly was.

Don had burst in unannounced and unexpectedly last night at somewhere close to midnight. Startling both him and their father, he had explained the situation minutely, only wanting Charlie's work on the locations. Charlie had recognized the pained expression on Don's face when he had explained that there was a problem with them, and had forced him to explain the full story of what had happened.

To say that it was disturbing would be putting it lightly. Charlie had only known Peyton for close to two months now, and had only seen her when he happened to be in the office at the same time she was upstairs. He liked her well enough, but had not had the opportunity or the chance to be with her everyday and get to know her further. Don, on the other hand as he had discovered last night, was more affected by the subsequent kidnapping of the female doctor. As probably were her fellow coworkers and the other members of the team.

But the problem with Charlie's mind was that he was not thinking the same thing as his brother and the team. Deluded by hope, they believed that by simply solving the clues and evidence they could get her back. Charlie had the numbers and statistics to show that in all likelihood Peyton was probably dead or soon to be dead. She was a liability that this killer could not afford. Being the head investigator on the case, she knew too much. Simply put there was a high probability that she would be disposed of and quickly.

He blinked as Amita asked him a question, scanning the four photos taped to the top of his board as she looked at them. "Peyton Huntzberger? As in Dr. Huntzberger? I thought she was working on the case."

He hadn't told Amita about the new twist in the case. News of her disappearance had been kept under wraps to keep it from the media. "She was…is working the case. It seems that the killer for lack of better words kidnapped her last night."

"How terrible," she said softly, sympathy in her voice. "And your probability of the locations will help find her. What type of problem are we talking about?"

Charlie cleared his throat and looked below the profiles to the numbers in white. "The percents are too low for any of the locations in the given area. They don't make any sense. I widened the search area for any new patterns or locations, but that didn't provide anything either. All of the high probability spots are illogical."

"How so?" He could see the cogs turning in her mind as she studied the board.

"Well, the high percentages are all areas that are too open to views. This killer isn't going to be in an open area. He's going to pick somewhere that he can hide and avoid suspicion and detection."

His former student turned to his desk, letting her fingers trace over the locations circled in red indicative of a high percent produced by the algorithm. "Yes, they're in the open. But didn't some of these older areas in Wilmington and San Pedro start out in the early 1900's and even before that as a wharfing and railroad community?"

"Yes it did," he said, confused as to what she was getting at.

She gave him another slow smile. "Charlie, then some of the old abandoned buildings in the older parts of these areas have basements and sub floors. Some of them are the entire length of the building. Combined with the large area and the fact that no one would go into them, let alone the bottom floors below the ground, make them a perfect place for this man to be."

The mathematician stared at the red circles, his vision tunneling. That was the missing link. It explained the anomalies and holes in his math. The percents weren't wrong, his perception was wrong. He could have kissed her.

Charlie grinned at her, excited and elated at their new finding. "Thanks, Amita. You've probably just saved her life and any others he's gotten his hands on."

Now all he had to do was refine the algorithm, tweaking it to find the highest percentages. The fourth photo caught his eye, the FBI identification work photo of her staring back at him, begging him to do something.

And something he had to do before she ended up like the other three: dead. After all his numbers never lied, and unlike these percents, the other ones about her survival rate were not in her favor.

* * *

David sighed and stared at the woman opposite the table from him, his face impassive, his eyes trained and unblinking. Nonplussed at any of his threats or statements, she continued to stare aimlessly around the interrogation room as if she couldn't have cared any less. Dark skin and facial features marked her as a Latino, her face bearing the heavy lines of the struggles of her life. Colby and he had picked her up earlier this morning, just after daybreak, waking her from sleep and receiving a very warm greeting complete with angry swearing and slammed doors. Clearly she had not appreciated being woken up and asked about the whereabouts of her car. 

The computer had matched the license numbers and found the registration for the black 1996 Toyota Avalon to belong to one Maria Perez, the same woman who sat across from him, arms folded across her chest as she glared hatefully at him.

"I already told you. I don't know nothin' about some white doctor being kidnapped last night." She said, pointing at him and rolling her eyes. Maria Perez had the chip on the shoulder attitude to match the look on her face.

"I know you did. I know you didn't have anything to do with it. We've already been over that. Your neighbors confirmed your alibi that you were home all night. I just want to know where your car is and who had it last night." David said for the third time, trying to keep the patience in his voice.

She eyed him, and then uncrossed her arms, laying them on the table as she scooted up to say, "Ricky had it."

This was new. Going along with her answer, he followed up and asked, "Who's Ricky?"

"Ricky's my boyfriend," her heavily lined eyes rolled again. "He's had the car for the last couple of weeks. Been taking it out without asking and using it. Always taking my money for it too."

"Do you know where he goes, Ms. Perez?"

An eyebrow arched and her shoulders lifted in an effortless shrug. She threw herself backwards in the chair, landing with a loud thud. "I don't know. He never says. The one time I did ask him, he hit me and told me I was better off minding my own damn business. I learned not to ask anymore. He leaves at the strangest hours; midnight, dusk, dawn. He stays gone for a few days and then comes back And then he's gone again a few days later."

"When was the last time your boyfriend left?"

She smiled at him, pleased. "He took it yesterday morning. I haven't seen him since."

Why she was happy was a mystery to him. She could be happy about the fact that her stealing and lying boyfriend was about to get into serious trouble when they caught up with him or she could be happy about the fact that the 'white doctor' had been kidnapped. She had not seemed too upset when he had mentioned the latter earlier in his questioning.

"Have you heard from him?" David asked, trying a different tactic.

"No."

He nodded. "Where does your boyfriend go to hang out when he's not at home with you?"

"What makes you think I'm gonna tell you that?"

David leaned forward, grinning slightly and said, "Because if you don't your boyfriend isn't going to be the only one in trouble with the law. I can have you spending the night in jail for obstruction of justice and hindering a federal investigation, and every night after that until you decide to change your mind."

She eyed him, judging his threat and wagering if he was bluffing or not. None of them were bluffing anymore. All bets were off as the time continued to tick away. The woman gave a dramatic sigh and held out her hand. "Fine. You got a pen and something to write with?"

Satisfied, David slid the pad across the table and looked out the glass wall to see his boss direct a meaningful look at the woman writing and suddenly turn away, walking off to where he could not see.

* * *

The two occupants of the silver elevator exited, stepping out with the rest of the people like who were destined for this floor. People clamoring to get in jostled them, rubbing elbows and shoulders. 

Kathryn tightened her grip on the tan colored folder in her hand. Standing on her toes, she peered over the tops of the cubicles and out across the bullpen, searching for Don and the other two. AFIS had spit out a match on the two prints lifted from the syringe filled with ketamine; one was a partial, but the other had matched with a score of eighteen points in similarity with the databases' hit.

Titus walked next to her, continuing to speak as she half listened to him. "…And I mean whose going to get us out of all our messes? And go drinking with us on Friday nights at midnight when we finally get off?"

"She's not on vacation somewhere, Titus. And neither is she dead yet." Kathryn immediately regretted the harshness of her voice and the bitterness in her tone. They were all under an inordinate amount of stress and each of them was responding to it in their own ways. She'd had to step up and take command of Titus and the lab; under her orders Peyton's case was given top priority, pushing everything else aside and allowing for them to get what would usually take days to process only hours.

Titus wilted under her gaze and he said quietly, "I know. I didn't mean it like that."

Kathryn softened her face and gave him a reassuring smile. "I know." She squeezed his shoulder and they made their way farther into the floor and away from the crowded elevator.

Don and Colby were found in the war room. They weren't alone and Kathryn recognized one of the men as the Assistant Director; Merrick was his name. The other man, older than Don and Colby but younger than the Director, she didn't know.

None of the four men in the room greeted them as Titus and she came in. Colby gave her a small smile and her lips lifted on one side in response. The tension in the air was thick. A moment later and she knew why.

"Agent Eppes, you and your team are too involved to be handling this case anymore. For the safety of you and the others, the case is to be handed over to Agent Loosle."

Don's voice rose in protest, trying to maintain the respect needed for his boss but also trying to make his point across. Colby stayed silent, letting his boss do the talking.

Agent Loosle was the second man in the room, she guessed. She vaguely remembered him as being the Special Agent in Charge of the Criminal Division of this office. He too remained silent, shifting glances back and forward to the members in the room.

Kathryn felt her ire rising. She was not a confrontational person. Peyton had once said that she was the single most nicest person in the world, and never ever got angry. But now she was angry. In her hand was the report linking the fingerprint to the man who had been in their townhouse and had played a direct role in the kidnapping of Peyton. And what were they doing? They were in a pissing fight about who should run this case. It was ridiculous and she let it be known.

"_Shut up_!"

The arguments ceased and everyone turned to her. Before they could say anything, she went on. "Shut up. With all do respect, Sir, we don't have time for this. We have a fellow team mate out there missing and in the hands of a noted serial killer who doesn't care about his victims or being caught. Every second that goes by is another we aren't going to get back. We don't have time to be sitting here and arguing about who gets to run this case or not."

The Assistant Director opened his mouth and said, "Ms. Nost, I would like to remind you—"

Not allowing him to reprimand her, Kathryn pressed on, clenching the folder in her hand. "And, Sir, do you honestly think that any of us would back off from this? Least of all the two of us? The people who should be heading this investigation are the ones that know the most about it and at the moment that is still Agent Eppes. A fallen member deserves the top priority and the best available on the case."

Merrick gave her a long and hard look and she worried for a moment that she had pushed too hard. "Very well. You speak the truth, Ms. Nost. Dr. Huntzberger deserves to have the best working for her and the best are indeed those who are the most familiar with this case," he shook his head as they all let out a collected sigh, hardening his voice to say, "But, Agent Loosle will oversee every decision from here on out. I expect him to be kept informed of every detail, new and old, Agent Eppes."

"Thank you, Sir," she pulled the tan folder out, flicking it open and smoothing out the bent edges from her clenched fingers, "The fingerprint techs just finished this. AFIS found a match on the one whole fingerprint. It matched to a Ricky Garza. Criminal record shows a long history of theft as well as assault and battery charges. He was just released from County Correctional four months ago after serving a two year sentence."

"Ricky Garza is the name of the boyfriend of Maria Perez. She owns the black Avalon identified at the townhouse. According to what David found from questioning her, Ricky Garza has been using her car for weeks now," Don said, looking at her and then at his boss as Merrick addressed him again.

"Did Maria Perez give up where her boyfriend is to Agent Sinclair?"

"I believe so, Sir. She provided him with a list of the places he usually frequents."

"In that case, find out where he is. Ask around. Canvas the areas. I'll put a rush on an arrest warrant and see if we can't get those people up at the District Attorney's office to move a little faster than normal." He said with a slight grin on his face, pleased with this proposed answer to all of their problems.

Kathryn let out a sigh as the two senior agents left the room, thankful that she hadn't lost her job. Colby gave her a pat on the shoulder and a smile, Don nodding and leaving too, more than likely off to put together the team to find Ricky Garza. She had crossed the line and had unbelievably gotten away with it. This was why Peyton was more suited to these types of things. Pushing peoples' buttons and overstepping that line was more her thing; she had the clout to back it up and didn't feel bad about it afterwards.

One finger ran across the line with Ricky Garza printed in bold black ink. With Ricky Garza they were one step closer…

And hopefully, she could go back to being the second in command and not have to yell at the person who weilded the power to fire her.

* * *

_Agent Loosle does exist. He is actually the real Special Agent in Charge of the Criminal Division at the Los Angeles Field Office. So in the off chance that he is actually reading this, please don't be offended. _


	16. What Happens Tomorrow

**Disclaimer: **Again, the properties and rights to any canon characters belong to the producers and CBS. Original I own.

**Author's Note: **Seriously guys, thank you very much for the feedback. It helps more than you will ever know.

_Colby and David are perhaps the best at tag-teaming as partners. Funny, they are. _

_Let's move on to creepy..._

* * *

"_And nobody knows what's gonna happen tomorrow, We've got to believe it'll be alright in the end"_

_-Duran Duran-_

_She should be dead_, he thought, fingering the welts that marked his face. The bitch deserved a bullet. _Right in between those green eyes_. It would have been for the best if she had have been killed the moment they had reached their destination. Instead, she was still here, sleeping in a cramped position against the slime covered wall.

His boss had forbidden him from touching her, threatening to renegade on their deal of five thousand dollars per person. He didn't know exactly what this man was up to; they were never allowed to stay for long after delivering the bodies. But he did know that it was something bad, worse than his partner's and his rap sheets combined.

His fingers traced over the bumpy and raised skin sliced by their sleeping victim when she had thrown her glass in his face, screaming like a harpy the entire time. They were scabby and bloody and added to his list of complaints against his contractor; the man had refused to allow him medical treatment for the wounds. His reason had been that a trip to the emergency room could be traced back by the police.

With a growl he snatched his fingers away. The cuts were likely to become infected now what with him only being able to use the old water here in the building and could possibly leave behind scars.

The woman twitched and he paused, waiting to see if she would wake up. The drug had worn completely off a few hours ago and she had surprised his partner by flying at him and landing one good hit, wielding her two bound hands like a sledgehammer, before falling back down. Now his partner supported a rather large bruise on his jaw and she another round of ketamine. His boss hadn't given him the same amount; it was only enough to ensure she would stay asleep, halfway between consciousness and the sleep world, keeping her motor skills from functioning.

And asleep she was, her knees drawn tight to her chest, head bent down over her bound hands. Through the careful manipulation of her body, they had discovered that she had twisted and scooted until her hands were in front of her instead of behind her back like they had previously bound them.

She didn't move again and he went back to watching her. He was stuck here while his partner was able to go until summoned again. This room was far away from wherever else his boss was, still leaving him in the dark about the man's true reasons for the live bodies they kept bringing.

His fingers crept back towards his face unintentionally and without any notice on his part. _She should be dead,_ he thought again. Allowing for it to fuel his rage and subsequent need for vengeance, the digits tightened on the skin and he welcomed the pain. _Dead…_

_And oh how he would enjoy that. Oh so much._

* * *

One day. It had taken them twenty four hours to find Ricky Garza. They had tracked the thief turned combatant to a friend's house. His girlfriend, Maria Perez, had told them that he liked to come here and play cards on Friday nights. Well, it was Friday and it was six in the evening. 

The other usual spots had turned out nothing. The bar tender had told them he hadn't seen Ricky for days, the owner of the pool hall hadattested that Garza hadn't been there for weeks, and the manager of the exotic club farther downtown in the seedier parts of the City of Angels had begrudgingly admitted to admitting the man a few days ago, but had not seen him come again for another visit. That had left them with the friend's house, waiting for a sighting, the undercover patrol cars sitting inconspicuous on the opposite curb.

The field office had received the call at roughly a quarter past five and David was ready to go, all other members under his command awaiting his order. Don was back in the office, told to remain there by Agent Loosle. The two of them were calling the shots from there.

"You ready, Granger?" He spoke softly into the piece attached to his collar, eyeing the front of the house from his position a few yards away.

"All is green from here. We're ready to go when you are." His partner's voice crackled back over the transmitter.

David had the front of the house, five men ready behind him, while Colby was stationed to enter from the back. Not wanting to chance any escapes, Loosle had given the go ahead for a full team to bring in Garza; after further persuasion with the threat of a night in jail still possible, the man's girlfriend had given away the small detail that the occupants of Friday night poker hand might be big time drug dealers; and the risk of an all out shootout was not something they were going to bet double or nothing on.

"Advance and ready on my signal," he whispered, giving the all clear to take up positions, their moves quiet and deadly as they moved in on the house, the evening sun reflecting off the shiny metal of their guns.

David halted, the agents behind him ready, muscles tense, bodies poised for entrance, breaths held in. Blinking, air rushed out through his nostrils as he counted to sixty. One minute was enough time for the agents around back to get ready and under control. _57…58…59…60…_

"Go!"

The wooden door was made short work as it was kicked in, swinging wildly as the hinges were pulled from the wood, reverberating against the inside. Shouts of "FBI" and "Freeze" boomed throughout the house, the game players startled from their poker chips and beer as fifteen geared federal agents flooded into the house from the front and the back.

Four Latino men rapidly stood, flipping the round table over and sending the cards to the floor. Reacting on instinct, David turned his weapon to the nearest man reaching for what was no doubt a gun at his waist.

"Don't move! Keep your hands up. Don't you dare move." he barked out, shaking his head at the man. He did a quick sweep of the faces; none of them matched the picture of Ricky Garza from the County Correctional file.

Cuffed roughly in part due to their unwillingness to cooperate, the drug dealers were subdued by the other agents.

"Bad night to play cards, boys. Where is Ricky Garza?"

An answer to the whereabouts of the fifth player was not given. David repeated his question, adding, "We know he was here, and we know he didn't leave. Where is he at?"

Colby saved them from answering, calling his name from somewhere farther back in the house. He issued the orders to have the others transported outside, and made his way down the hall, past the kitchen and a bathroom. David found his partner in a bedroom near an open closet door.

The junior agent had his foot planted firmly in the man's back, back bent over, hands busy cinching the silver metal around the man's wrists. After the small click, he jerked him off the floor unceremoniously, holding him close.

"Look what I found, David. He was hiding out in the closet with the high heels. Seems like he didn't want to talk with us." Colby said with his usual sarcasm.

David grinned. "Is that so?"

"I ain't got nothin' to say to you," he spat out, glaring balefully, looking very intimidating with his hands behind his back and held in Colby's grip.

His partner smiled down at the man, laughing, "Aw. Come on, Ricky. Don't you know how much trouble we've gone to find you? Come on now. We just want to talk."

"Well, I don't want to."

"Hey! Consider yourself lucky. It could be worse." David moved with the two of them back through the house, coming outside and past Garza's four friends. The drug runners catcalled and whistled about being wanted by the feds.

"Yeah? How so?" Garza sneered out, awfully cocky for a man who must know why he was being picked up by the F.B.I.

David shoved Garza's head into the car, slamming the door but not before the man heard him say,

"We could have just killed you."

**-----------------------------------------**

Less than a foot of glass separated him from the man who had jabbed the needle into Peyton's neck, pushing down and forcing the anesthetic into her system, rendering her limp and useless. Less than a foot and it was probably for the best.

For the second time David was the one who was on the opposite side and in the interrogation room and Don figured that was the way that it should be. David kept a level head and could be cool as ice when the situation called for it. This one did.

His arms braced against the table, palms facedown, fingers spread wide, as he watched the proceedings in the room. A hand touched him gently on his shoulder, brief and faint, leaving as if it had never been there.

"Relax."

"It's kind of hard to," Don growled out, turning his head slightly to eye the person who had reached out to touch him.

Kathryn studied him, tilting her head, eyes boring into him and seeing somewhere down deep inside him. She was uncomfortable in just what way to help him; helping those in need and those around her seemed to be something that made up part of her being. Wanting to be there and fix everyone's problems came natural to her and was compelling to her. Don recognized it because it was something he too did; he was a people person, and while he didn't share his own feelings and thoughts, he did try to help his families' and his friends' problems when they needed it.

"Yes, it is. But, you'll do no good if you let it rage inside of you. There is nothing you can do. It's up to David to pull the information out of this guy. Your best bet is to center yourself and relax… that way you can pick up on something that you would miss if you continue to let your thoughts wander to places they don't need to at this moment." Kathryn looked at him for a few breaths longer, eyes unmoving, until she found something in his face that she was satisfied with.

He let out a collected sigh that he hadn't realized he had been holding, breathing in and out, the air rushing through his lungs and back out through his mouth. On the screen David leaned forward again from his seat.

"I'm not saying anything. Nothing," Garza answered loudly, looking at David and then up at the glass wall separating the two rooms, letting them know he knew they were there, and that his words were directed to all of them.

A glossy photo of a black car landed on the table in front of the man, Colby circling around the back of his chair, speaking as he moved, "We already know you were there. An eyewitness identified the car and the license plate, which you were driving that night." Another photo was smacked down, overlapping the first. "We've also got your prints on a needle filled with ketamine in her home. See that right there," his agent's finger jabbed at the black ridged print, "that puts you there, at the scene of the crime. That print means you put that needle in her. You were there!"

Garza tightened his mouth, his hands pushing the photos away. "I'm not saying anything."

David shook his head, disbelief in his tone as he said, "Man, we have you down for the kidnapping of an employee of the federal government. Add that to the four other murders that you helped with, and you're looking at being away for a long time. That is if you don't get the death penalty. Why don't you save yourself the trouble, tell us where she is, and maybe we'll see if the D.A. is willing to give you something. It might save you from a long stint on death row."

"I can't."

"Why not?" David narrowed his eyes.

"I just can't!" Garza exploded upward, Colby reacting instantly and shoving him back down.

"That's not good enough, Ricky." David hunched over the table, putting his head closer to the man. "Tell us where she is."

His head shaking, the Garza looked around the room. He spread his palms outward, and said, "You don't know this guy. You don't know him. What he does, I don't know, but it's bad. Worse than some of the things that I've heard about in County. The screams are the worst. I don't ask questions. I just collect my money and go. If he finds out that I talked to you… I don't even know what he would do to me."

Colby circled around for another pass, eyeing the man with a look that hid nothing about what he truly thought of him. "You're never going to see him again. You're not going anywhere, Ricky. So what have you got to be afraid of?"

"Look. I'm telling you, you don't know him. All I know is that he told us to grab the woman, same as we did any of the others. Said he wanted her and that she was a problem."

"There are two of you?" David asked.

"Yeah," Garza looked down, clearly wanting to take back the information that he had just revealed. "Look, all's he said was to grab the Fed. That's all I'm saying. I'm not going to end up dead like the others. He'll find me. I know it."

"Fed?"

"Yeah. Federal agent," Garza looked at them crazily, his tone implying they were stupid for not knowing the nickname for their own job.

"Who's a Fed?" His two agents shared a look across the room. Don saw Kathryn turn from the corner, her arms uncrossing as she came to stand next to him.

"The woman we kidnapped in the townhouse. He told us to get the Fed. Heard her name on the news. I saw her at that press conference. Black vest… yellow words on it. The federal agent. One of you." He gave them an odd look, the suspicion in his expression meaning he thought they were up to something.

Don pulled back sharply, Kathryn doing the same, both turning to each other.

"They think she's an agent?" Don queried out loud. It didn't make any sense. The vest had yellow words on it… and so did their vests. The ones that were seen in almost any cop show or movie with a spy in it. Chalk one up for the entertainment industry.

"No. That's a good thing."

"How so?" Don didn't follow her train of thought.

Kathryn looked up at him. "If he finds out that she's a doctor, he'll more than likely want her to help him. He's failed with his goal so far, and is just sick enough to do anything to get it at this point. And she won't give it to him, even if she knew how. He's already proven that he knows how to cause pain. What's he going to do when she says no?"

Don turned back to the screen, her insight unsettling, his mind and stomach reeling at the thought. Could this guy really do that just to get his _goal _achieved? He didn't have to answer that. The man sitting on the other side of the glass answered it for him, his fear at being found out as a snitch enough.

Garza had clammed up again, repeating his line of not answering anything else because 'he' would find him. _They needed something, _Don thought._ Anything. Something to get him talking again. _

He was saved by a hard knock on the door. Charlie stood there, peering in and casting a sideways glance to Agent Loosle at his side. His brother had never met the man and was more than likely wondering why he was following him.

Entering, Charlie spoke, excitement in his voice, and the three of them, Kathryn, Loosle, and himself, were soon just as thrilled, the thoughts of goals and yellow letters pushed aside for a moment.

"I've found it."

* * *

The man opened the door, waving a hand to the Latino just inside, effectively dismissing him. He had no great care as to either of the men he was paying to deliver his experimentations. They were hired help as far as he was concerned. His price kept them quiet despite the questions he saw in their faces every time they cast their inferior gazes upon him. 

After he was sure the man was gone, he shut the door, carefully locking it. He was not afraid of its occupant. There was nothing she could do to harm him, but it was still a comfort in terms of a precaution. He would take no risks in jeopardizing his goal. Too many years and too many hours had been poured into this, his heart and soul given to see it through.

With disgust at the water beneath his feet, he walked steadily towards the resting woman. She truly was a beautiful creature. Not at all like the inferior bodies of his experiments with their coarse hair and dark eyes. His fingers reached out to brush along the pale cheek and moved aside strands of perfect blonde hair. Simply beautiful.

She jerked her face away from his touch, deep green eyes opening and focusing on him. He smiled and gripped her chin, staying her from moving. From her tied and bound position there was not much she could do but take it.

"Deine Hände von mir, du weg erhalten bastard." Her words were slurred, but he could understand what she said.

A thrill ran through his body upon his discovery that she spoke the German language. It only made her even more perfect. How lucky was this find?

"Come now, my agent. No need to be rude. I've saved you from those lowly beings. You're where you belong now." He ran a finger down the smooth skin, frowning as she shivered at his touch and twisted her body away.

"Agent?" She shook her head. The ketamine was still in her blood, distorting her thoughts. It made for such an effective drug.

"Yes, my federal agent?" He asked, returning to studying her wonderful features.

Her head shook weakly from side to side in his grip. "I'm a doctor. Not… an agent."

He paused in his stroking of her cheek. He watched as her eyelids drooped closed again, her head falling forward as the drug drew her back in. _Not an agent?_

A feral grin spread across his features and he resumed stroking up and down, crouched there in the dim room.

_How lucky indeed…_

* * *

_How creepy is this guy? She doesn't exactly know what she's saying at the moment. Ketamine is a bad drug... Very bad. _

_Roughly translated into German, Peyton said: "Get your hands off of me, you bastard."_

_How many of you figured out the reason for the title of the story?_


	17. Holding Out For a Hero

**Disclaimer:** Yeah... Uh.. I'm going to go ahead and say that's a no.

**Author's Note: **You can thank newgal for this update... She bugged me until I finally sat down and added it. :) Thanks a million to you guys who show your support; it makes me feel so much better about my writing. Special thanks to those of you who added me to your favorites. :) And thanks to my newest reviewer.

And, yes, this is perhaps the most aptly named chapter so far in this story.

_And they always have to mess up at some point._

* * *

"_I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night, He's gotta be strong, And he's gotta be fast"_

_-Bonnie Tyler-_

"It's not _the_ location," he said, turning his head to look over his shoulder as the screen in the war room finally brought up what he wanted.

Their faces instantly fell, clearly anticipating that he had found the exact location of where the killer was. The agent higher up on the bureau ladder, their missing member's friend, and his brother had ushered him into this room upon hearing his declaration that he had found the location.

Seeing their faces fall and the smallest sliver of hope dim in their eyes, Charlie rushed on to add, "What I mean is that I don't know which one it is," he turned his entire body around this time so that he could look at them as he spoke. "The algorithm turned out three top locations. The only problem is that they all have around the same percent as being the most probable place."

The screen split into three sections, each one showing a different location. The problem Charlie had discovered, as he had gone along and as they could also tell from reading the words, was that the three locations weren't in the same remote area. Roughly there were about twenty five miles in between the first and the third spot.

"Three? Is there anyway that you can narrow those down, Charlie?" Don asked, taking up his usual stance of leaning against the table with his arms folded across his chest.

Charlie had tried that; Amita had helped him refigure the algorithm, trying to change a few variables here and there to see if any notable difference would come up in the numbers. It had been to no avail. Despite their minds both working together, these three locations had continued to stubbornly throw their selves back up at the top.

He shook his head, one curl falling in his eyes, blocking his view and irritating him. Idly, he thought, it might be time for a cut again. They were getting rather long. Charlie cleared his throat and pushed the dark curl away. "No. I tried that. Every time Amita and I reworked the algorithm it continued to throw these three locations out. They have the highest probability as being the place where this guy is. But…"

His fingers tapped out a steady rhythm on the keys of his laptop. The screen faded, only to come back split into just two parts. "But, I believe that it is one of these two buildings."

"And why is that, Professor?"

Charlie turned to the other agent in the room. It was the first time the man had spoken since demanding to know who he was and why he was here when Charlie had first arrived at his brother's cubicle, searching for its missing occupant.

At least his tone was less rough this time. With quick steps he walked to the screen, sweeping his hand out to indicate the numbers, pointing at them and the pictures as he spoke. "Well, these two had slightly higher percents than the other one; eighty seven to eighty two. Both of these have the same, eighty seven. The other one, which I disregarded, was located in the San Pedro Harbor. Far to close to people with all of the busy activity that goes on there. It was an older building and was set further back from the actual Port, but it still seems unlikely."

Charlie pointed to the first one. "This one is an old fishing factory in Wilmington. It's about fifteen miles from Drum Barracks and is set back in the middle of an abandoned, run down yard. Amita did some research on it and no one has owned it for years; it has sat empty for quite some time," he moved on to the next one. "The second one is located in an area off of Machado Lake in Harbor City. It's smaller than the one in Wilmington and is farther from the ocean. But this one is more isolated."

"Which one do you think it is? You got any feeling towards one or the other, Buddy?"

Charlie looked at his brother and then back at the screen. He wanted to do something, to make sure his brother was able to do what he needed to do. His mind knew that Don would be appreciative no matter what, but something in their relationship that had developed over the years always had him trying to go one step further, to please him just that one extra mile. Maybe it was to make up for everything that had happened when they were younger. He didn't exactly know what it was and he couldn't exactly stop it from happening. It just did.

Truth be told, the mathematical prodigy had no idea which one it was. Each one had their own sets of positive and negative factors that detracted and added to their probability. To tell which one he thought was the better one or the one this guy had actually decided to take up residence in was hard. One was more secluded but smaller. This one was much larger and had a better access route to getting anything that this guy would need, but was slightly more receptacle to anyone stumbling along and finding him.

He couldn't just pick one over the other. It wasn't that simple. Nothing in these situations was ever simple. Each of them was ideal and the identical percents showed that. Charlie shook his head and explained what he had rationalized already in his mind.

"Then," Kathryn said slowly, "I suppose we are going to have to go to both of them."

He nodded. That would be the safest way to go. To pick one and then have it turn out wrong and waste even more time would be far too detrimental. Time was of the utmost importance now. As the statistics were saying in his brain, the longer the time ticked by the lower the chances were that any of this guy's victims were still alive got.

"Not necessarily." Charlie watched as his brother grabbed a stray piece of paper off of the table, grabbed a pen, and began writing something, the pen scratching across the sheet furiously.

Finished with whatever he was copying down, his brother took off from the room, changing directions and weaving through the bull pen and the other busy agents. Seeing that Kathryn and the SAC were just as confused as he was, Charlie followed them as they tried to keep up in his brother's wake.

Don's destination found, they came to a halt inside the first part of the interrogation room, where the monitors showed that Colby and David were still inside talking with a rather young man. The Latino man looked tired and harassed, anger simmering beneath the surface. Anger simmered beneath the surfaces of Colby and David too, Charlie noticed.

Charlie watched as David remained seated at the table, forearms against the table aggressively. Colby paced the room, circling back and forth behind the man, doing his best to intimidate. Intimidating he was. The two were asking him a question that had something to do with another man.

He never heard the man's reply. Don slammed into the door, entering the room, and bringing all three heads up to stare at him.

"What the hell is he doing?" Agent Loosle whispered under his breath, muttering a few other words.

_What the hell are you doing, Don?_ Charlie turned back to the screen, it being the device that would allow them to hear the words that would be exchanged.

The man who was not an agent looked up at the newest person in the room, and vehemently stated, "Like I already told these two. I ain't got nothin' else to say."

Don shook his head and gave a tight lipped grin before tossing the piece of paper he had written something on down onto the table. Everyone, in the room and out in the monitor room, watched as it slid across to rest in front of him. "Yeah. I've already heard all your crap, Ricky. You're too scared to say anything else. I'm not asking you to say anything else. Just point to which one it is. And I'm not asking this time."

Ricky, whoever he was, looked long and hard at his brother for a moment. Something must have shown in Don's face because after several long seconds, the man pointed to the what Don wanted, licking his lips and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Satisfied, Charlie watched as Don grabbed the sheet again, ripped it in half and exited the same way he had come. He didn't say a word as he passed by, only pausing long enough to shove the paper in Agent Loosle's hands. Wordless, he left, leaving them still confused as to what had transpired right then.

Charlie and Kathryn both stepped beside the agent, craning their necks to see what was written there. What magic words were on that sheet? There in plain black scrawl were the letters spelling out the address for the old fish factory in Wilmington.

_What the hell, indeed._ His curls shook as his head moved from side to side. Leave it to Don to be the creative one. The man hadn't talked. He had never uttered a word, and still they had won.

He turned back around, looking out the glass for any sight of his brother. It didn't surprise him when he didn't find him among the people in the bull pen. Agent Loosle was already on his phone, barking out orders for a team to be put together and ordering that a team be ready to go now.

Stepping out of the way as the older agent moved out from the door, Charlie caught Kathryn's gaze, seeing the worry that must be mirrored in his own. If anything should happen to go wrong…

Doing something that he hadn't done in a while, he issued a silent prayer for things to go well tonight and for their side to prevail.

_They would certainly need it…_

* * *

His grip tightened on her arm, pulling her along as she stumbled to keep up with him. He had bound her arms behind her back again and while it was the smart thing to do, it made for a very troublesome way to get her to follow him, being that she couldn't exactly control her equilibrium. Giving her a shot of another drug had seen to waking her up and bringing her back full swing into a level of alertness. 

He jerked her back up as her foot caught on something, saving her from falling. Her head stayed bent down, hair falling to curtain her face from his gaze. She hadn't said one more word after divulging the very interesting fact that she was a doctor. A doctor working for the F.B.I. must mean that she was a scientist involved with examining the evidence of a crime. That meant she must have a degree in either chemistry or biology. Perhaps physics, but he was willing to bet that it was one of the two more forensic related fields.

Stopping in front of a door, she tried to pull away. He tightened his grip to a vice, grinning as she let out a small whimper. Perfect she may be, but she was now his way to reach his goal. The door opened with a small amount of coaxing upon his part. This old and abandoned building was drafty and wet, causing the doors and such to rust and stick when attempting to open them. His hands pulled her along as she pathetically tried to resist him. She was far too small to try and stand up against him.

He flicked the switch, eyes narrowing in annoyance as the beams flickered and sputtered. It was almost too dark in here for him to carry out his surgeries and experiments. Almost too dark. There was nothing he could do about it; this building served his purposes quite well. No one could hear the screams that came from below the ground. Shrugging, he turned back around, noticing that he had errantly released the woman.

Her nostrils flared wildly as she sucked in oxygen. It took him a moment to realize that she was fighting the urge to fall and pass out. He cocked his head to one side, and examined her, taking in the wide eyes, pupils dilated, jaw clenched, shoulders shaking. His mind couldn't fathom what was bothering her so much.

His head turned and he looked over his shoulder. That must be what was causing her behavior, but why he still couldn't fathom. Chuckling, he pulled her forward and back to his side, making sure to keep a tight grip so that she couldn't bolt, and said, "Come now. Don't tell me you're frightened."

Together they approached the large metal table in the room. It was a dark color, dark steel, made so by the use over the years and the inexcusableness on his part to keep it polished. Dried red and brown streaks marred the silver, ruining its beauty. They stopped when their stomachs hit the top.

He looked down in satisfaction, the same euphoric thrill running through him as he gazed upon his work. The woman had closed her eyes tightly again, and he hissed, reaching out to grip her chin, forcing her to open them and see. She let out a rather large gasp and shut her mouth quickly, nostrils flaring again.

"What's wrong with it?" He asked, wanting her to tell him how to fix his problem.

Her head shook and he felt his anger rising. Here he was, trying to perfect this inferior human race, and she, a perfect being already, was for some reason on their side. Her chin shot downwards, forcing her head down, as he violently moved it to that position.

"Look and tell me how to fix it," he hissed out, releasing her chin to try and appear nice so that she would help. Perhaps if he showed kindness, she would reciprocate it.

He let his gaze fall back down and looked at the same thing that she was. It was not known on his part that what he was seeing was very different from what her mind was processing. There on his table was a body, a twenty year old college student to be exact. His chest rose in even measures, the ketamine in his body keeping him under the anesthetic's lure. His eyes were what caught both of their attentions and was the source of his question. Open as he held the lids back, they stared sightlessly up at them, the irises still a murky brown color. The chemical dye had only succeeded in irritating the organ, causing the vessels to become pronounced and red; a faint blue, the only hint of the dye, stained the white area with the red inflamed vessels.

"I can't help you," she whispered softly in the dim room, the sound vanishing. She swallowed and then said louder, "I won't help you."

His anger rose and spilled over. With a growl he raised his hand and backhanded her sharply across the face. That sound echoed around the room. Her head snapped to one side and her body followed the movement, sending her crashing into another table and then to the floor.

_How dare she refuse to help him? How dare she refuse to tell him what he sought?_ Where else was he supposed to find the answer to what was going wrong? His mind fumed and raged as he looked down at his life's work. He needed his answer. _To be so close…_

A noise brought his mind back and he turned rapidly to where it had come from. The woman had regained her bearings, breathing heavily as her body leaned against the table. His eyes followed her hand as she smeared the blood dripping from her nose. _Her free hand_. How had she done that?

She sniffed and wrinkled her nose, wiping it once more. Her eyes raged with an unbridled fury, her other hand rising to show a thin, rusty razor. The force from his hand had caused her to land back against his surgical implements table. Blood dripped from her fingers. The woman had grabbed the razor behind her back, and used it to cut the rope away, cutting her nails and skin in the process.

Warily he turned to face her. Her green eyes, full of anger and hate, narrowed at his movements, the flickering light from overhead glinting off of the razor as her fingers twisted and turned it; red blood dripped to fall in drops to the floor as every twist of the blade cut her skin.

He shouldn't have moved at all. As soon as he put one foot towards her, she lunged forward, the other hand grabbing something else off of the table. He brought his own hands up in defense, but her fury and drive made her strength far greater than what it should have been and the momentum carried her into him.

The razor slashed left and right, cutting his hand and nicking his face. Quickly he jerked his face back and brought his hand to grab her wrist, forcing the razor away from him and towards her face. It was her turn to hiss as it sliced into the fine features of her chin, and she moved away, retreating for a second and then slamming her other hand into his neck.

He hadn't been prepared for that and he watched in confusion as she backed away. Stunned, he reached up and wrapped his fingers around cold glass. _Ketamine. _She had grabbed one of his syringes and injected him with the same drug that he had used to subdue all of his victims.

He pulled it out, ignoring the pain when the needle caught on his skin. It wasn't enough to bring him down, but it was enough to make him lightheaded. He looked around for the doctor who was supposed to have been his salvation.

The sound of the door banging against the stone wall caught his attention and he saw the tell tale flash of gold as she flitted around the corner and back up the steps.

He growled. He had offered her a chance to help him in reshaping the human world. To perfect the imperfections in an inferior race. And it was a shame. He couldn't let her get away now. She knew too much. It was a shame. For now…

_She had to die…_

* * *

_I've decided that CreepyGuy! is the funnest character to write. His mind is so twisted. Don't forget the other guy is still out there too._

_And now we wait for the cavalry to ride. Feels like I should have a trumpet or something. Or is it a bugle?_

_Anyone have one I can borrow? Hit that little purple button down there if you do... Or you can just hit it anyway. :) _


	18. It Ends Tonight

**Author's Notes: **Thanks a bunch guys. This is perhaps my favorite chapter that I have written. Guidelines in case anyone gets confused: Each half page break signifies the two pieces that go together, the first one leading straight into the next. Each whole page break signifies a shift in the scene. I think this adds to the drama of the chapter.

_And the cavalry arrives..._

* * *

"_I give the final blow, When darkness turns to light, It ends tonight"_

_-The All-American Rejects-_

The fog rolled steadily, coming off from the general direction of the bay. It was sometimes called the 'May Gray' or the 'June Gloom' by its residents that lived in the Santa Monica area. Streaming off from the waters of the Pacific, it would roll in during the very late hours of the night, burning off by midmorning as the sun made its own appearance way up in the sky overhead.

The marine layer wisped over the grass, leaving dewy tendrils of vapor in its wake. Ghostly fingers caressed every blade and every stone. The wind blew silently, whispering and propelling it forward.

On and on it rolled over the coast line, moving away from the cooler temperatures and warm air of the ocean.

Several miles inland found it stopping as it came into direct contact with something in its path. Spreading in two directions, the fog curled and climbed the old bricks, hugging the blocks and slipping in between the cracks.

Bright stars, so very odd for this city that was usually far too bright to see the massive balls of plasma overhead, twinkled and blinked in the night sky. Crickets chirped, adding their voices to the other creatures of the night in this secluded and open area. From somewhere came the call of a bird, a harsh cry that echoed in the otherwise still night.

The thin mass of gaseous water and air continued to climb upward, stretching itself to embrace the entire building. All was silent in the night except for the normal cacophony of the habitants that made this silent place their home.

And while it was silent on the outside and to the fog's ears, there was no way for it to hear what was happening inside the old brick building.

And there was no way for it to know what was about to happen outside of the building.

**--------------------------------------------------------------------**

The agent bit his lower lip, clenching his jaw and tightening his grip on the 10 mm MP5 resting in hands, the butt in the crook of his elbow. Junior agent Marshall Conrad had to stifle the urge to shiver; the urge itself was great and sorely tempted him to turn tail and run. In any other situation the twenty nine year old rookie transfer from Salt Lake would have been embarrassed, but not with the one that he had been ordered to suit up and participate in tonight.

Before him was an old factory, fishing by the looks of it. The bricks that must have been red at some point in the past were now faded to a burnt sienna color, chips here and there dotting the ceramic stone.

The land surrounding the square building was unkempt and overrun. Tall blades of the dune grass kind grew in the sandy soil, thigh high in some patches. A dirt path, just wide enough for a vehicle ran three yards to his right, running straight to curve and end around the end side, more than likely in the back entrance of what used to be the loading and receiving docks.

Marshall looked up into the sky. It was a full moon tonight, the light beaming down from behind thin wispy clouds. The moon and the clouds only added to the spooky and eerie feeling that surrounded the place. It was the aura that reminded him of Halloweens when he was a child, and was out of place for the mildly cool night in late May.

The night call of a bird drew his attention back to the structure before him. Again he found himself adjusting his grip on the weapon in his hands, reassuring his mind that the heavy artillery capable by the semi automatic weapon was more than enough to ward off the demons that inhabited this ground.

Sounds of heavy feet crunching against the small shells and stones beneath their feet made the agent look to his right. Walking past him and speaking in hushed voices were two other agents part of this rescue team. Sinclair and Granger were their names and Marshall watched as they silently approached the dark haired agent who was the closest to the building. The senior agent and the leader of this operation was speaking in his ear piece, no doubt waiting for the go ahead back at the main office.

Sinclair and Granger stopped behind their leader, waiting and listening. Eppes cast them a furtive glance, and Marshall saw his lips move to say something and then bend back down to his mouthpiece.

He watched them with a pitying glance. Everyone knew in the office that it was Eppes' team that had lost the forensic doctor from downstairs in the basement. Tensions had been high over the last three days, everyone tiptoeing around, especially those that worked on that floor. No one in the office wanted to say anything or make any sort of comment that could offend or send someone else into a fit. They had all kept their heads down, going about their own cases, and keeping their mouths doubly shut. Though that hadn't stopped them from whispering about it in the copier room or the coffee lounges when they thought no one else was around.

He blinked as he saw Eppes straighten and nod to the agents on his own team. The team leader's hand flew up and twisted to sign the appropriate signals. Everyone knew the drill and knew what to do. They had been briefed extensively back at the office and again on the way here. Now it was time to do it.

Moving his weapon to the correct position, Marshall steeled himself and blocked out all thoughts of eerie moods and auras just as he had been trained to do. There would be no room for that tonight.

Silently he fell into line with the other twenty odd agents, moving through the tall grass, the only sounds coming from the night birds and the _whick-wack_ of the grass against their knees.

One by one they each advanced upon the building, the fog swirling, providing them with a natural cover, and making them all disappear.

* * *

She ran, not really knowing where she was going or why she was running. She only knew that she couldn't stay here. A restlessness and a sort of nagging feeling lurked in the back of her mind, urging her to continue onward despite the protests from her sick and weary body. The only thing she wanted to do was to lie down; to lie down and to never get up again. Rest was what her body called for. 

The woman stopped and leaned against the wall to her right. Wearily she collapsed against it, not quite sliding down to the floor and not quite remaining all the way upright. Her eyes fluttered closed and her head fell to hang down, the weight of it seeming impossible at the moment. Straining, she attempted to try and pick up on any sounds.

That simply function that should have been so easy seemed so hard. Nothing wanted to work properly. It took her ears several minutes to realize that the harsh sound in the corridor was actually her breathing.

An involuntary spasm rocked her body, sending her on a trip that flowed from the tip of her spine to the bottom of her bare feet. A moment later and she shivered from the actual cold of the place. Her toes curled and she was startled to discover that no shoes of any kind encased her feet. Hugging her chest, also startled to find how much effort that too took, her senses made a mental note that the cotton of her clothes was wet and stiff.

One of her hands brushed against her arm, trailing a wet liquid across the hairs and skin. She pulled the appendage away, bringing it close to her eyes— her eyes wouldn't focus, either— in order to see what the substance was. It was sticky and thick and she rubbed two digits together. Doing something that any average eight year old would have down when stricken with a bout of curiosity, she tentatively licked it, pulling back sharply at the metallic taste.

The viscous liquid on her arm and hands was blood. Her blood, she discovered, twisting her wrist to watch it flow from her tips to down her arm. A fresh drop splattered down from somewhere above to fall on her upper arm and she reached up to touch her face, noticing that she was bleeding from there as well.

Already sticky fingers followed a deep gash that stretched two inches along her jaw line to her chin.

A noise came from above her head, the sound coming from upstairs. Her fingers dropped from her face after the few extra seconds it took for her brain to process what it was hearing. One voice called out. That triggered the nagging feeling to return and she pushed herself away from the wall.

Instinct taking over, the woman ran, ignoring the pain in her body and devoting all of her energy to outrun whatever it was that was haunting her.

**-------------------------------------------------------------------------**

Jose Garcia was beginning to understand why it had been that when he was a little boy, playing in the dirt in his village, the other boys had teased him about being dumb and stupid. The teasing had usually ended in fights, where he won some and lost others. But now he understood why they had called him that and he was beginning to acknowledge it himself.

After being dismissed by his boss, Jose had gone back to the main level of the fishing factory and gone out the back door, intent on getting in a smoke or two. It was his time to kill, the man hadn't given him any orders, and he really didn't care to be around him when his boss was about to do something. A few cigarettes out back with the wind blowing off from the ocean would help him to clear his head and chase away the damp smell of the place.

It had been outback that he had made stupid decision number one. Not thirty minutes after he had unbolted the back door to the old docking area, had Jose heard something that alerted him to the fact that he might not be alone. Stamping out his butt, he had walked around the back, not thinking to find something other than a stray animal or creature out during the night.

What he had found had been very different from a cat or dog. He couldn't make out much of what the figures were, being that the mist obscured mostly everything that wasn't five feet in front of him, but he was able to discern that they were people and men by the look of it.

That had brought up stupid decision number two. Instead of hightailing it back around the building and leaving his boss to fend for himself, Jose had made the erroneous decision to go back into the building, giving up his one chance to escape.

Now he was two floors down from the main level, not quite in the basement yet. Figuring that he could use the back stairs from the basement to escape, Jose had headed down, but had stopped when the sounds of carefully guarded footsteps from overhead filtered down through the old floorboards.

Jose pressed himself into the shadowy alcove, doing his best to remain silent. Inch by slow inch he moved sideways down the corridor, eyes trained on the wooden planks up above. A thudding sound followed by a wet splash tore his watchful gaze away and down the dark corridor.

The woman from the townhouse rushed into the light, hunching over to grab at her stomach a few yards away from him. Jose hadn't seen her since his boss had decided to question her himself. Silently he watched her.

She swayed from side to side, seeming to have a hard time keeping her balance. It took him a moment to connect the dots and deduce that the shiny dark pool on her clothes was the blood that was rushing from her own body. It was everywhere, all over her hands and arms, down the front of her shirt. Thick clumps matted her hair and in the dim light as she turned her head to one side, he saw that it was streaked all over her face. Jose remembered a book that he had once read in an English class; something about a group of boys that had been stranded on an island and that turned into savage little monsters that eventually hunted each other. Standing there in that corridor, he thought she looked exactly like one of those boys out of the story.

In watching her swaying there, continuing to remain unnoticed, Jose also remembered what she had done to him. The cuts on his face seemed to burn and all of the anger that his cigarettes had chased away came back in a rush.

Jose hissed and swore under his breath. At the sound the woman's head snapped up and she stepped back as he stepped out from the shadows. Her eyes seemed to take a few moments to register who he was and he moved forward, intent on killing her and exacting his revenge.

Recognizing him, the woman clumsily dove sideways and scooped up a lead pipe from the base of the wall. The fact that it was there was simple random luck. Back home in his village, just across the border, Jose had played football with the other boys. But he had also played baseball and a favorite past time of theirs had been to hit one another with the baseball stick.

And when she swung it towards him, rather clumsily, he let it bounce against his forearm, grimacing at the shock and pain. Quickly, he grabbed it from her, ripping it from her hands and bringing his head forward to head butt her hard in attempt to loosen her grip. She fell backwards and he followed the quick head butt up with a sharp blow to her right wrist from the pipe, satisfied at the resounding _crack_.

With the second blow she fell completely down, falling hard and letting out a loud cry. She laid there on the dirty wet concrete floor and Jose grinned. The sound of running feet from up above and doors slamming against walls was lost on him as he advanced, the only thought in his mind the need to hurt the woman right in front of him.

* * *

Don's head jerked up at the sound. He stopped dead in the middle of the open floor, boots sloshing the water around in the puddle. The four other agents that had been designated to follow him stopped from their scattered places in the vast and cavernous main floor. 

The sound echoed, coming from somewhere beneath their feet. Magnified in this building, it had the eerie sound that complimented the place. Long and loud it rang, stretching to fill the tall ceilings and corners. But for all its eeriness and sense of foreboding, the shriek was still that of a person in pain. And it was still very feministic.

Moving so fast that the other agents behind him had to run to catch up to him, Don tightened his grip on his Glock, tearing open the only door in the wall. The steps lead up and down, and he took them several at a time, almost slipping as he went down and came to the bottom.

The barrel of his weapon was the first thing that appeared around the corner of the door. Doing a quick check and assured that no one was right there, he stepped out into what was a darkly lit corridor. The door banged closed behind him, the harsh sound traveling down the hall. Not waiting for the agents he could hear coming down the steps, Don set off down the hall, shifting his gait from a fast walk to a sprint.

He cursed as he reached the end and discovered that the whole thing was empty. Furious, he cast around for another place or another way. This couldn't be a dead end. The cry hadn't come again and that thought chewed away at his mind.

His arms stumbled against a metal rail and he squinted in the darkness to find that it was another set of stairs, no doubt leading to the next level. Grasping the metal, he hopped over and landed roughly on his feet, wincing as it jarred his knees.

Once again the steps were taken more than a few at a time. Wary as he had been at the first landing, he met the second level with his gun outstretched. Listening for a moment, he faintly heard the sound of feet.

Don sprinted down the hall, slowing his movements as the hairs against the back of his neck prickled and the feeling of alertness that had only come from being an agent for all these years washed over him. The second corridor had proved to be the one he had wanted and the source of the sound.

He stepped out from one patch of darkness and into the light, his brain quickly processing what was in front of him. A man, another Latino and probably Ricky's accomplice, stood in front of him, arm bent raised above a figure below him. Don couldn't exactly make out everything about her, but the small figure and the hair gave her away.

His mind and chest both jumped as it always did in situations like this. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his body. _She wasn't moving. _Don raised the Glock, moved forward, and barked out, "Back up! Don't move!"

Alerted by his voice, the man spun around, continuing to keep the pipe in his hands over her. A feverish light shone in the man's eyes and Don tightened his grip. He repeated his order.

This time he was rewarded with a reaction. The man hissed and shouted something in Spanish. Don watched as the man ignored him, turning back to raise his arm back for another strike. As the metal swung down, Don's finger tightened on the trigger, squeezing once.

The bang of the gun echoed and reverberated down the hall and filled the silence.

**---------------------------------------------**

Colby shifted his Glock from his right hand to his left hand. He reached up and wiped the sweat from his brow, a shaky hand passing over his lips. From the corner of his eye he saw David doing much of the same thing.

Assigned the back of the building, Colby and David had entered from a small door off set from the loading dock. Taking the steps right there, they had entered the basement. No sign of their first objective had been found, but the horrors that they had found in the basement converted laboratory had been enough. No sign of the man behind all of this had been found either.

Colby turned as his partner came to stand next to him, shying away from the wooden shelf above their heads. They had found the missing eyes of their victims and he grimly tore his gaze from the floating organs.

Another agent moved past them, bending down to tell the woman next to the man's latest victim that an ambulance had been dispatched and was twenty minutes out. Unlike the others, they had arrived in time for this one. The young man was still alive for the moment. Time would tell as to whether he would live through the physical and mental ordeals that he had endured.

The distinct sound of a gunshot came from above. Trading a knowing glance with David, Colby set off from the room, David right on his heels. The door opened easily as he yanked it open.

This was a different way from where they had come in, but there was only one way to go and that was up. Both of them moved their guns back into the correct positions, rushing up the stairs and bursting through the door at the top, attempting to track the sound.

The stairs led to a long hallway and Colby broke off into a sprint. David's breaths came from behind him, urging him on. He skidded to a halt as he came to the source of the gun shot.

To one side was a man, groaning and holding his right shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers, the hole the source of the gun. To the other side of the hall and against the wall was Don. His boss was down on his knees, hands moving over the person on the ground.

Colby's eyes were drawn to his leader's hands as they fumbled against her neck, searching for a pulse of some kind. With the way she looked Colby feared they wouldn't find one. Their missing doctor was unbelievable pale, and thin looking, the sharp angles of her face amplified. A nasty looking bruise was forming across her forehead, and blood seeped from many places. She was horribly still in the dim light, looking very much dead.

All three of their breaths were harsh in the open corridor, mingling with the sound of the groaning man now behind Colby as he stepped forward. Don swallowed, his fingers finally finding the right place, tilting her head to the side. Colby watched as it moved effortlessly with no resistance, seeming to flop like a rag dolls.

Nothing was said and the seconds seemed to drag on endlessly in his mind. Finally, Don whipped his head around to face them, dark eyes shining bright in that dank place.

"I need a medic now!"

* * *

_Background Information:_

_Peyton's semi-concious state and behavior: Ketamine distorts sounds. It's a known side effect and is a reason no one uses it any more to get high. Also, after being starved, depraved, insanely driven, and given copious amounts of heavy drugs for three days, she's not in the best of shape. Also, at this point she is starting to lose her grip on sanity._

_The Fog: In Santa Monica there really is the 'June Gloom' and 'May Gray' and it's just what I wrote._


	19. Open Your Eyes

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any canon characters; those rights belong to CBS and the producers.

**Author's Notes:**_ Many thanks to those who read this, and many many thanks to those who review and let me know how each chapter turns out. _

* * *

"_The anger swells in my guts, I want so much to open your eyes, 'Cause I need you to look into mine"_

_-Snow Patrol-_

**Cedars-Sinai Medical Center**

**Los Angeles, California**

**7:52 a.m.**

Waiting.

Waiting was always the hardest thing to do. She had never liked to waste time and sit around. The endless stretch of minutes keeping you from your goal had never appealed to her.

As a young child waiting had seemed like endless torture. Sitting on the stairs waiting until they could go down on Christmas morning to see what was under their tree with all five of her siblings, Sam and Eric jostling against her, Cassie snuggled against her pajama clad knee, Luke struggling over her shoulder to keep a hold on little Jacob who only wanted to tumble down the steps. Or when she had had to wait for her acceptance letters from Yale and Harvard, circling the days on her calendar in bold red and keeping her fingers crossed.

Now Kathryn's fingers beat out an erratic rhythm on the top of the steering wheel as she waited in the line designated for those wishing to park in the visitors section of the hospital. The word 'visiting' didn't quite seem to fit the situation in her mind. She mused as she released the brake and moved the car to take her turn, _Could coming to see your near sister be termed visiting if you didn't know if she was even alive?_

Fixing the plastic card that would keep her from being towed, Kathryn eased through the garage, finally finding a spot and whipping the wheels of the Lexus around, slamming on the brakes; the car jerked as she shoved it into park, the tires screeching at the abrupt halt.

Slamming her door closed, she ignored the meter asking for her quarters. They could bite her and get over it. Certainly the situation could excuse her from not paying the fees to park.

Her flats slapped against the pavement and the tile of the entrance to the emergency room, the cold from the inside floors seeping through the thin material of her shoes. She looked down and realized for the first time that she had been wearing the same clothes for two days now.

But then she hadn't left the FBI office since Don and the others had left for Wilmington. She had paced the floor, living off of cold coffee and some stale food out of the refrigerator in the lounge. Don's brother hadn't left either, choosing to remain and go over his numbers in the war room. So Kathryn had chewed her fingers with worry and Charlie had silently sat off to one side, staring off at the screen on the wall and the pictures on it. Neither of them had moved until the call had come over at five in the morning, alerting them of what had gone down and even then the message had been terse and short, details obviously needing to be filled in.

Ignoring the shooting looks from a woman holding a wailing toddler and an older man, Kathryn cut her way straight to the admittance desk, not caring that she was fronting. She didn't have time to wait.

"Excuse me? Excuse—" She called, trying to gain the attention of the harassed and underpaid nurse as she rushed by. She even threw in some hand motions.

Time slowed and she was left waiting again. Patients were wheeled by. Doctors bumped into her, intent on their own paths. Hysterical people screamed out their wants to the nurses at the admit desk and Kathryn couldn't help but become slightly annoyed at their whining insistences over allergies and the common cold. None of their loved ones had been held captive by a raging Neo-Nazi madman for three days or had been killed. _What did they have to bitch about?_

"Kathryn?"

At the sound of her name over the din of the crowded emergency room, she spun on her feet. Colby, still clad in his heavy vest and body armor, pushed and squeezed his tall frame between a man and a stroller, making his way to her.

Her feet moved and her body followed suit and they met halfway. "What happened? Where is she at? What's going on?"

The sandy haired agent shook his head and her heart dropped in her chest. He placed a hand on her elbow, guiding her away to a corner where she saw David sitting in a chair, looking just as bit as uncomfortable in his gear in this place as his partner.

David stood and they both eased her down into the chair, which happened to be the only one available in the room. Kathryn blinked, the lights dimming and the room suddenly spinning on its axis; she looked down and was surprised to find that her hands were shaking.

People were blurring and her stomach was rolling. Her head fell faint and any moment now she was going to fall backwards. _It couldn't be…_

A hand clamped down on her shoulder, squeezing hard and she opened her eyes to see Colby holding her down and two worried faces peering down at her.

"Kathryn, are you okay?" David asked, looking over his shoulder for a nurse or someone.

She nodded and swallowed hard, forcing her mind to focus. The room was spinning less now, thanks to Colby's grip keeping her firmly grounded. After a moment she began again, "What…Where is she?"

David turned his head back to look at her, seeing that she was better now. "We don't know. They took her back there when we arrived. Don's been back there with the doctors, waiting for something, but no one's come back out here to tell us anything."

Kathryn closed her eyes again, trying to digest what his words meant.

"She was still alive when we found her," Colby murmured, his hand remaining.

"Still? What does that mean?" she looked up at their faces, "Tell me."

Colby looked over at David and then back down at her. His eyes studied her, judging her for what she knew must be bad news. Finally he sighed and said, "She was pretty bad, Kathryn. She wouldn't wake up. Not for anything or any of us. The medics couldn't even get her to open her eyes."

Her chest constricted and her heart did that flip-flopping drop again. She inhaled sharply and let it out shakily, standing and gently pushing Colby's hands away and David's worried looks. "You said she's back there?"

They nodded and Kathryn pushed off from the chair and away from them, joining the fray once more. This time she didn't bother with going to the admittance desk, instead making straight for the double doors and slipping through, ignoring the protests by an orderly.

Her grip tightened on the strap of her purse, the buckles biting into her skin as she spotted the dark haired man with the navy body vest emblazoned with F.B.I. in large yellow letters.

**

* * *

**

**Cedars-Sinai Hospital**

**Room 057**

**9:45 a.m**

The even beep of the monitor sounded throughout the small private room, the green line pulsing steadily against the black backdrop. Early morning sounds of the busy traffic of the city filtered in through the cracked window. Sunlight was kept to a minimum, hidden behind thick white drapes. The room was silent, the only noise being the constant beep and the near silent inhale and exhale of the room's sleeping occupant.

A long, lean, finger followed the line on the monitor and then returned to the clipboard. Michael Dunn, the nurse assigned to watch over this room, clicked the top of his pen and began the process of filling in the correct information in the appropriate spots. He moved around the stand and lifted the IV bag, checking the drip and watching the clear liquid move down the tube.

Replacing the bag on the stand, Michael moved the clipboard underneath his arm and gently picked up his sleeping patient's hand. Carefully, mindful of the woman's injuries to her wrist, he checked the spot where the IV had been inserted. It was clean and showed no signs of causing distress to her body.

A sudden fluctuation in the even rhythm of the monitor alerted him to a change in her status and he briefly looked back at the green line, which was now moving faster than before. Her heart rate was picking up; over the last two hours it had been steady at around seventy five beats per minute. Now the green numbers showed one hundred beats and climbing.

Michael grabbed the clipboard and reached over to press the call button, but stopped when the rate suddenly stopped climbing and began dropping slowly back down. Satisfied that everything was alright after she evened out at ninety, he let his hand drop away.

_Peyton Huntzberger. Thirty two year old female. _Michael looked at her for the first time since coming in. She was a pretty woman, with an aristocratic face complete with high cheekbones and an ever so slightly upturned nose. Hair the color of an African lion lay around her head, the sun catching the different tints. She had the type of beauty that not even the cuts and broken wrist could detract from. The only problem was that she hadn't woken up since arriving, remaining unconscious and only moving briefly when the doctors had reset her right wrist.

Finished with his report, Michael moved around the foot of the bed, sliding the chart back into its home. He made it to the door when a sound reached his ears, causing him to turn back. Walking backwards, his feet moved until he reached the foot of the bed again.

The sound came again and he flicked his eyes to the monitor. _No immediate alarm there. _His patient, Peyton Huntzberger let out another small whimper, twisting one hand and turning her head.

"Ms. Huntzberger? Ms.?" Michael walked to the left side of the bed, moving closer to her. Her breathing was no longer shallow and soft, coming longer and faster.

The nurse jumped back as her eyes snapped open and she bolted straight up in the bed, moving to a sitting position, her hair moving to fall down her back and frame her face. Her eyes were wide, the green deep emerald and the pupils dilated.

Michael waited to speak, allowing her the chance to take in the room and her surroundings. After a moment he asked, "How are you feeling, Ms. Huntzberger?"

She blinked owlishly at him, and spoke warily, "I hurt. Everywhere. Hell, does it hurt." Her voice was sore and raspy, and he offered her the cup of water from the nightstand.

She took it, drinking greedily and licking her cracked lips. This time her voice was slightly less raspy, but he could still tell that it was painful for her to talk. She laid herself back against the pillows, not quite lying completely back down underneath the covers.

Her eyes swept over him, and Michael found her gaze forward, making him fidget. She cut her eyes back to examine the room again. "Where am I?"

"Cedars-Sinai, Ms. You were brought in this morning."

"Un-hunh…. And who brought me here?" She asked with confusion in her voice and face, struggling to remain awake.

He found it easier to talk when she wasn't looking at him. Her eyes fluttered once, closing and then opening again. _She must be fighting the urge to fall back asleep._ "You were brought into the emergency room sometime around five this morning. I believe it was federal agents that worked with…"

Michael trailed off and quit talking as she tried to move her right arm, noticing for the first time the cast that was on it. The room grew silent and she lifted her other arm, inspecting the bandages wrapped around the ends of each finger.

Those wild eyes cut back to his face after she had taken full stock of the bruises, cuts, stitches, and other assorted injuries to her body. Her voice this time bordered on full blown hysteria. "Why am I here?"

He looked at her confusedly and gently answered her question, moving forward to try and ease her discomfort. "Ms. Huntzberger you were brought in this morning with severe injuries. As to the manner in which they happened…"

Moving closer to her only further added to her panic. Causing her body even more pain, he noticed as she winced, she pushed herself away from him and he stopped.

The bandaged fingers and cast covered wrist were held up for him to inspect. She was shrieking now, "What are these and where did they come from?"

The heart rate was climbing on the monitor again. "Ms. Huntzberger, please calm down. Just relax and breathe deeply," he grimaced as she didn't comply, her breaths coming in short pants. "Don't you know what happened?" He asked the last, confused as to why she didn't know what had happened to her.

"No, I don't. I don't know where any of this came from. I don't know why my head feels like its about to split wide open. I don't know why it is so hard for me to focus to see you and hear you speaking. I don't know why my entire body feels like it's been crushed and beaten multiple times. And most importantly I don't know why I'm here, at a hospital!" Her lungs ran out of oxygen and it took her several gasps and pants to regain the ability to speak.

"I don't remember anything at all that's about this. The last thing I do remember is driving home after work. I don't remember."

She looked up at him, her eyes boring into his, tears shining like glassy reflecting pools. "Why can't I remember?"

**

* * *

**

**Cedars-Sinai**

**Hallway/Main Floor**

**Outside of Room 057**

**10:57 a.m.**

She was pacing again. Back and forth. Back and forth. Five steps this way, about turn, and five steps that way.

Don lifted a hand to the base of his neck, rubbing the muscles and letting his hand slide up through his hair and down over his face. Giving him more room to stretch his legs out, he slid farther back in the chair, his left foot bumping into his discarded gear next to him on the floor.

"I need to call her father."

His hand fell back to his lap and Don looked up from the floor. Kathryn had paused in her pacing, stopping halfway in the hall with a far away look on her face. The woman was out of her mind, more so than any of the rest of them.

Along with her pacing, she had taken to muttering to herself about the people who needed to be called; Don now knew everyone that they still associated with back in D.C. There was Damin Huntzberger, Peyton's father; Sebastian and Amelia Huntzberger were the grandparents; Mat and Rebecca were close childhood friends and Perry was another childhood friend. Not to mention Kathryn's entire family as well.

The oak colored door brought Don to his feet and Kathryn back to the now. Dr. Funk, as the stitching on his coat showed, closed the door slowly. He stopped when he saw both of them, taking in there faces and the way they had been hanging around the hallway there. The clipboard motioned them to move back to where Don's chair had been, out of the way of the gurneys and other hospital workers out and about.

"And you are who? I can't disclose any information about Ms. Huntzberger unless it's to an immediate family member." Dr. Funk was an average looking man, late forties to early fifties, thinning dark hair and bright blue eyes.

Kathryn jumped to the man first, speaking in a rush, "I'm Kathryn Nost. I'm her emergency contact in Los Angeles. Her other relatives are in D.C. I have the power of attorney over any decisions regarding her life. I can get the form if you need it, but it would be wasting time and I really need to know what is going on."

The man nodded and turned to him. "And you?"

Don reached and held out his badge. "Special Agent Don Eppes. Dr. Huntzberger is part of an open and ongoing investigation. I'm like her," he nodded to Kathryn, "I don't leave till I know what's going on."

Dr. Funk studied each of them for a moment and Don set his face, his jaw clenching and the muscles working. Finally the man nodded again, sighing before lifting the chart in a defeated gesture. "Ms. Huntzberger's injuries are not my most immediate concern. They will heal overtime. She lost a tremendous amount of blood, but we have been able to remedy that and stabilize her. I can say that if the medics hadn't brought her in when they did, it would have been worse. Despite the rough treatment she obviously endured, the only broken bone is her right wrist. She suffered a distal radius fracture…"

_That would be from the lead pipe. _Don shook his thoughts; the man was in custody now. At least they had found the two underlings and had them. The boss himself had disappered.

Dr. Funk continued speaking and Don jumped back in on the conversation, "I reset the joint and placed it in a cast. Thankfully, no surgery was required. It will take three weeks to heal and an additional four to five weeks of lying off from any strenuous activity that would stress the area. The incision on the right side of her chin will need to be monitored for infection. With the place the EMT's described finding her in, I am worried that the razor could have had bacteria or such on it. But for now it has been stitched up, though likely it will leave a faint scar, deep as it was. The tearing of the skin around her nails has been bandaged and heavily wrapped. Likely it will hurt for quite some time. I placed her on a Lactated Ringer's solution to re-hydrate her and to speed up the process of regenerating her blood, bringing it back up to where it needs to be. I've hesitated to put her on anything else, simply because I want to wait until all of the toxins that were put in her system have been flushed out."

The clipboard dropped, and Dr. Funk relaxed, done with his speech. Don looked him in the eye. There was something about his face that said the doctor was holding something back. _Something else was wrong._

"But she's alive?" Kathryn asked from his right.

The doctor nodded an affirmative, and Don said, breaking the moment of relief, "Dr. Funk, you said that her injuries were not your immediate concern."

Don watched in trepidation as the man looked over his shoulder, waiting until the orderly had passed their little spot before saying slowly, "When Ms. Huntzberger was brought in this morning we could not get her to regain consciousness. It was only a little over an hour ago that she finally did wake up. I've just finished interviewing her and her nurse. Ms. Huntzberger does not remember anything that happened to her. She does not know why she is here and she does not know where her injuries have come from."

Kathryn paled next to him and Don thought she would faint for a moment. Shakily she said, "I... I don't understand."

"Ms. Huntzberger does not remember anything after three days ago. The last thing she can recall is driving home from work. She has no trouble remembering things now; I tested her for that. Because she can still remember everything up to that point, I believe she is suffering from dissociative amnesia. It is when a person cannot recall what happened during an event or a certain period of time due to stress or a traumatic and violent attack. From what I have gathered from the medics who brought her in, whatever happened to her was traumatic."

Don shifted his stance, swallowing hard. "Does that mean she'll never remember what happened?"

Dr. Funk shook his head. "It's hard to say. For the time being, her mind is simply blocking what happened to her from herself, more than likely because she cannot deal with it at the time. She could regain those three days in a week or it could take months. Or she may never regain what happened to her. The recall of her memories may be triggered by something as simple as a word or phrase that she heard while she was there. I just don't know at this point."

"Can I see her? Please?" Kathryn pleaded softly.

Dr. Funk gently led her over to the door, leaving Don in the hall to watch as he said to her, "Sure. She's gone back to sleep now, which is the best thing for her for the time being. But it may be good to have a familiar face when she wakes up who can help keep her calm and relaxed."

The door shut behind the two of them, closing with a _thud_. He waited for a moment, collecting his thoughts. She was okay for right now. Safe in that room where nothing could get her again. _There was something they still needed to do._

Slowly and then picking up speed, Don retrieved his gear from the floor and made his way back through the double doors and out into the waiting room. Spotting David and Colby in the corner, he headed towards them.

"She's okay for right now. Alive. Sleeping. Doctor says she doesn't remember what happened, but that she'll be okay," he said before they could ask.

They both nodded and Colby said, "So what do we do now, Don?"

He stared at the cars outside for a moment, letting the noise of the room and its people wash over him.

Don turned back to his agents, looking them in the face. "Now? Now we find the son of a bitch who started all of this and get him for good."

* * *

_See I haven't forgotten about everyone's favorite CreepyMan... _

_Everything medical I tried my best to represent to the facts that I could find. They are real; I did not make them up. _

_Dissociative Amnesia: No, she was not hurt in the same way that the victims were (tortured and experimented on), but the evils that she saw and what she heard and saw have caused her mind to block them and store them away for right now. The reason why will play a role in the chapters leading to the end. By the way, there are only six chapters left in this one after this._

_Also: Just saw the long version of the Season 4 premier trailer, and all I can say is Holy Crap, does it ever make me want Friday so bad! Megan has shorter hair, Charlie has facial hair... and the fate of Colby is decided! _


	20. Animal I Have Become

**Disclaimer: **All rights to the canon and etc. belong to CBS and the producers. I just own the original characters and the really creepy guy.

**Author's Notes: **Thanks as always. You guys make me blush. Many of you have helped me over these weeks and made this story better.

_As you requested Simanis, here it is, on Monday. _

_This song is perfect for our forensic doctor and CreepyGermanAryan guy._

* * *

"_So what if you can see the darkest side of me?, No one will ever change this animal I have become"_

_-Three Days Grace-_

**F.B.I. Field Office**

**Los Angeles, California**

**11:33 a.m. (Two days after raid at Wilmington)**

Six weeks.

She had been gone for six weeks and her team had been to Hell and back. She didn't have to ask for an explanation. Everything she needed in order to piece the puzzle together was right here in front of her. It was in the tightly drawn face of her partner as he typed away at his desktop. It was in the gloomy faces of the other two members on their team as they siphoned away through the mounds of paper in the war room, one of their remaining forensics by their sides, looking very pale and lost. It was in the atmosphere that blanketed their floor, other agents moving purposefully about but quiet as if no one wanted to disturb the silence.

And it was in the file that lay opened on her desk. Her stint with the Department of Justice had ended, and Megan had brought herself back to work early this morning as opposed to taking a day off to recuperate. She suddenly wished that she had taken the day off. She had gone through her own Hell with her assignment and a part of her still was not ready to come back. True, she had missed all of this, the building, their work, and most of all her team; they were her friends, the closest thing she had to a family and it pained her to know that she hadn't been here when they had so obviously needed her most.

In their team, David was the one who could be counted on to remain the most in control, always cool in the face of an adversary. Colby, who she had missed dearly, was always the one who could find humor in the most serious of situations, always bringing them back from that final place of darkness and point of no return. Her partner was their leader, the one who shouldered everything and kept them strong because he remained strong. Her job was to keep them all together. To keep them afloat. When she saw one of them slipping, she was always there to reel them back in, the one who talked it through.

And she hadn't been there when all of this had happened, and it didn't take a genius like Charlie to figure out that a little bit of talking it through could probably have been useful.

The shrill ringing of Don's desk phone brought Megan out of her own little world, and a quick glance at the clock on her computer made her realize that she had been staring at the same set of words for the last fifteen minutes without taking any of them in. Keeping an eye on Don as he answered the phone, Megan refocused and read over the paragraph she had been stuck on.

'…_at roughly four thirty a.m. Dr. Peyton Huntzberger was retrieved from the old 1912 fishing factory in downtown Wilmington. Another person, later identified as Keith Kelli, was also retrieved. Both were removed and sent to Cedars-Sinai Emergency Room for treatment…'_

The report went on to disclose more about the injuries of each. The boy, Keith Kelli, was alive; his eye sight would likely be damaged for the rest of his life, but he was better off than the other victims that had come before him. Peyton, on the other hand, was alive, after being treated for multiple wounds and drug intoxication. However, she had no recollection of what had happened, as Don and Kathryn had each told her separately this morning.

Seeing that Don had returned the phone to its cradle and was rolling his chair back, Megan turned to ask, "What was that about? We got something?"

Don stood, nodding to say, "Yeah. Titus got the system to give us a name. He just got done with Loosle, running the background check on the guy."

Her chair rolled back with relative ease and she followed him into the war room, giving a small smile to its three occupants. Amidst the papers scattered throughout the room were glossy photos of the different crime scenes. Her eyes caught one that hadn't been one of the two she had been at before she left. The absence of a dead body told her that the living room belonged to Peyton. Immaculate and organized around the areas that had not been destroyed in the apparent struggle, Megan noted that the forensic specialist was a person who liked to have everything in its own place and neatly ordered.

The arrival of the southern Mississippian and the head of the Criminal Division kept her from further dissecting the photos. Agent Loosle greeted her with a curt "Agent Reeves." Titus gave her a warm smile and warmer words, drawling out, "Agent Reeves, I hadn't realized that you were back. It's nice to have you around again."

"Thank you, Titus." Megan said affectionately; she had missed them as well. She took a seat next to David, opposite from Colby and Kathryn. The tall, auburn toxicologist gazed up at her colleague, her face dull and lifeless, her grey eyes the only indication that a person was in there.

"What did you find, Titus?" Don was the only one who had elected not to stand. He had taken up his customary perch of leaning against the table, arms folded over his chest, once again taking on the role of the strong one.

Megan followed the man around the room, just as interested in his answer as all of them. Titus inserted the flash drive in the projector's laptop, moving aside so Loosle could operate it while he turned to speak to them.

Titus cleared his throat, looking over his shoulder at the board every few seconds, waiting for something to pop up. "The lovely and ever so quickly staff over at the hospital finally released Keith Kelli's and Peyton's clothes. We searched that entire basement and weren't able to lift any viable prints; for all his evilness and such, the bastard knew how to clean his messes up. Didn't leave anything behind that allowed us to track him. But, he messed up when he grabbed Peyton on the arm. A substance on her shirt imprinted three of his fingers, allowing us to get three good prints from a database over seas. And, well, meet Christof Knapp…"

The screen focused to bring up a profile shot of a relatively middle aged man with blonde hair and blue eyes. Nothing about him marked him as being a killer or a deranged man.

Agent Loosle hit a key, sending the command for another picture to replace the one of Christof Knapp. It was of the same man, only a few years younger, with fewer lines around the forehead and eyes, and a keener look in the expression.

Titus continued on at this new one, saying, "Who is really Dierk Knapp," the screen faded one more time and brought up another profile. He grinned and stated triumphantly, "Who actually is Meinhard Ackerman, forty three years old and born in Munich, Germany."

All eyes rooted to the screen. This was the man they were after. This was the man who had killed three innocent college students, experimenting on them to 'perfect' them and killing them when it hadn't worked. This was the man who had kidnapped a forensic doctor because she knew too much, keeping her drugged and incapacitated until she had almost died. This was the man who had caused all of their problems, and was still out there somewhere.

After a pregnant pause and a heavy moment of silence as everyone in the room stared at the face of Meinhard Ackerman, each of them lost in their own bitter thoughts of rage and sadness, Titus cleared his throat and brought all of their attention back to what was at hand. "Meinhard Ackerman attended the University of Münster in 1982, becoming a doctor and taking an active interest in biology and genetic research. In 1990 he then moved to Prague and entered into the Institute of Chemical Technology. A year later he was asked to leave, for reasons undisclosed. Coming to U.S. in 1983, he stayed off the radar in New York for some time, moving to South Carolina and Georgia and then finally coming to Los Angeles in 2005."

"That fits with the idea that Peyton and Claudia had. That he was an experienced doctor who knew what he was doing when he operated on the victims," David piped in from the chair to her left.

The screen changed again, bringing up a blurred picture of what appeared to be their man at Union Station. It was Agent Loosle's turn to explain the picture. "Earlier this morning after we discovered Ackerman's identity, we issued an APB to all local authorities to be on lookout for him, in case he decided to lay low before skipping town. A police officer at Union Station called in saying that he recalled seeing a man matching his picture around five this morning, hanging around the train area. The only problem is he can't remember where he was headed and this is the only camera that captured him."

Colby swore under his breath, and Megan saw Don's jaw clench, the muscle ticking. To have been so close to catching this man and then to have him slip through their fingers was more than any of them could take. One wall after another had slammed up on this case. For every step forward they had gotten, this man had forced them to take two more back.

Don swallowed and then straightened. "Yeah, well, there are only three directions that this guy could have gone. Chicago, New Orleans, or San Diego. And he's going to want to get to an airport that will give him a connected flight out of the country. So we can assume that he is making his way back East. Probably either Chicago or New Orleans."

"My thoughts exactly, Eppes. That's why I've already alerted all stations within the Chicago and New Orleans area and the areas along the way. Agents from those field offices have already been assigned to watch the area, ready to pick him up. All we have to do is hope that he didn't jump off at one of the stops," Loosle added.

A cell phone rang and Megan instantly reached for hers, amused that everyone else had done the same. It turned out that it wasn't hers and belonged to the only other woman in the room.

Kathryn flipped the cover, putting one finger in the opposite ear to ward off any interfering sounds. They all listened in as she began speaking rapidly to the other person on the line, "No…What do you mean she's gone? How… How is that even possible? Oh, really? No, I am not being contrite with you…No…Thank you for telling me."

"Bad news?" Don asked, turning around.

The air in the room became heavy again and that silence reared its ugly head, the silence where no one wanted to say what they were thinking. Kathryn stared at the open phone for a moment, closed it, and then looked up at them before saying in disbelief,

"That was the nurse from Cedars-Sinai. Apparently, Peyton just discharged herself and left."

**

* * *

**

**2150 Brentwood Park**

**Brentwood, Los Angeles**

**1:48 p.m.**

It hadn't changed.

The architecture was still the same, bricks inlaid with years of memories from other families and times, their color reflecting the sun's light as it beamed down from high overhead. Over there were the flowers in the beds that Kathryn planted every spring. The grass was still its beautiful lush green color. Looking to the left she could see the bushes separating her home from the environmental law students that lived next door, and farther down the road the palm trees that swayed in the wind.

She didn't exactly know if she had been expecting anything to be different and she had to tell herself that it had probably been stupid of her to think that it had changed. Why would it have? The only thing that had changed had been its owner, and she couldn't even remember that.

The wind that made the fronds of the palm trees sway finally reached her and Peyton pulled the light jacket closer to her, feeling only cold despite the warmth of the day. She was always cold now since she had woken up in the hospital bed. Nothing could warm her up. The cold wasn't on the surface of her skin. It was in the very marrow of her bones, deep inside her, refusing to go away.

"Are you going to be okay, Peyton?"

Slowly, tearing her gaze away from the blowing fern on the front porch, Peyton rotated her feet and turned around to face her neighbor that lived across the bushes to her right. Alexei, her French immigrated fashion designer, had picked her up from the hospital after she had conned the nurse into allowing her a phone call. She could have called Kathryn to come and get her, but her friend would have insisted that she stay longer. Besides she wanted to be alone at the moment.

"Yes. Thank you, Alex." Vaguely she heard the words come out of her mouth, but they were spoken with no recognition or feeling.

He nodded, leaving her to her own thoughts with a small apprehensive look on his face. Shrugging off his worry for her, indifferent for the moment, she walked to side door leading into the garage. Fingers fumbled in her pockets as she retrieved the key that Alexei had used to get inside and bring clothes suitable for her to change into.

The lights flickered on, revealing the boxes and other things in the garage. Her eyes lingered on the red paint of her Porsche as she walked around the front, going up the steps to unlock the door to the house itself. She humored herself, looking down at her wrist and thinking, _Won't be driving that any time soon. Perfect wrist to have smashed. The one I need to shift the gears._

She burrowed further inside the jacket, finding her house cold as well. Her feet were slow as she moved through the kitchen and into the living room. Peyton stopped and surveyed it. Everything was at its usual, the only thing missing the two end tables on either side of their couch. She knew there was a reason as to why they weren't there, but the why itself was lost. Something else that had happened over those three days that she couldn't remember.

A purring and rubbing against her legs made her look down. Bending down she scooped Caesar into her arms, cradling him to her chest, and petting his head. He purred in greeting and meowed softly into her neck. She made soothing noises to him, reassuring him that his mistress was back. He was a comfort to her, something warm for her to hold even if it didn't chase away everything that plagued her.

The steps were taken slowly as well, Caesar now riding on her shoulder, and together they passed the second level where Kathryn lived and continued up to the third level where her room was.

It was the same as well. Balcony doors shut, drapes hanging loosely, moving gently as the air blew from the vent underneath. Shadows played against the wall, the sunlight splintering them into different shapes.

Caesar jumped from her shoulder to the bed, looking up expectantly at her, eyes imploring that she join him. She smiled at him and finally peeled off the jacket, digging around in an inner pocket for the two small brown bottles. They made a nice thud as she sat them down on her nightstand, right beside the book she had been reading and a glass of water that was now several days old.

The boots came off as well, landing somewhere in the general vicinity of her bathroom that led to the closet. Fully clothed she peeled back the coverlet and crawled under, reaching over to uncap the prescribed bottles.

Lining up the correct dosage, she remarked aloud to Caesar that they made a nice and neat little white row. The two pain killers prescribed for the pain in her wrist and the Pentothal designed to help her regain the lost memories were chased down by the old water.

Her cast free hand pulled the elastic from her head, and she shook out her hair before sinking into the pillow. She pulled the thick gold comforter up under her chin. Even that didn't chase away the chill entrenched in her heart and spirit.

Her eyes closed as the medicine worked its wonders and she finally allowed the Sandman to take her in his arms, feeling safe for the moment in her own bed as opposed to the hospital bed. The last thing she remembered before she was out was Caesar padding across the comforter to curl up around her head, the sound of him purring contentedly, tail swishing through her hair, lulling her to sleep.

**

* * *

**

**Ontario Amtrak Station**

**Bench outside Track 5**

**Ontario, California**

**8:13 p.m.**

The wind whipped through the platform, scattering old discarded newspapers, cups, food wrappers, and anything else that was light enough to fall prey to the fanciful air of the night. Over the tops of the palm trees the sun was sinking into the sky, its last rays of the day, orange and fiery, hazy as they gave way to oncoming darkness. From behind the station came the slow rise of the sun's counterpart, the silver orb making its own way into the night sky, stars following in its wake.

The only occupant of the platform huddled farther down on the stiff, wooden bench seat, pushing himself down into his jacket and pulling the hood of the gray sweatshirt closer to his face. No one paid him any heed and if they did it was only to think that he was a homeless stranger taking up empty space for the night.

Meinhard Ackerman closed his eyes, thinking of what had gone wrong and why he was here, sitting on an old bench, waiting for the next train that would bring him closer to the East coast and one step further to getting back to his homeland. Once home he would have to start all over. Begin anew and take on another identity.

After the blonde woman had struck back and escaped— after he so foolishly had trusted her and allowed her the small opening to get away— he had taken a few seconds to recuperate and get his bodily functions back under control. The amount of anesthetic poured into his blood had been minuscule when compared to his size, and had done nothing more damaging than slowing him down ever so slightly.

Standing in his laboratory, he had calmly and logically devised the best course of action to be taken in order to recapturing the woman and disposing of her. But something that he had not foreseen had happened. Somewhere along the way the two Latino ex-cons that he had hired to do his brunt work had messed up, giving the authorities the opportunity to trace them back to the factory and find them. Faced with the option of staying and being caught by the police, Meinhard had fled through the tunnels beneath the building. He could start over once he had left the country and he had been careful to leave nothing that would incriminate him and allow them to find his true identity. The woman would have been taken care of by the other Latino, the one who had come close to hurting her earlier on. That is if she had survived the chemical onslaught to her brain and happened to remember anything.

The tunnels had allowed him to resurface thirty yards away, in the tree line, and out of sight of anyone. From there it had been easy to slip away into the night; he had plenty of money in cash that had provided him a secluded and hidden place to lay low for a few days and enough to easily buy the ticket that would see him out of California.

From here he would continue on down South, and eventually make his way to the airport that would connect him to Germany. The thought of being found out didn't worry him at all; he had left no discernable trail for anyone to find him. In this country his real name was hidden behind many others.

The only problem was the loss of his work. Having to leave so suddenly had seen the farewell to his work here. Most could be recopied from his memory, but the extensive and copious notes themselves were lost to him forever now. He would have to start over, begin anew, and make a clean break.

However, there were always fresh bodies to be found and the infidels of the world were still imperfect. His life's work was not finished and the perfect ones on this Earth still needed him to save them from having to share their lives with those lowly creatures. And if they couldn't be perfected and died from it that was one less being that remained.

The only occupant of the platform settled back down, folding his hands in his sleeves and stretching his long legs out. As the sky darkened and the sounds of the night's creatures filled the area, he let his body rest.

If a passerby happened to walk closely enough to see his face they would have seen a slow smile steal over. Thoughts of his plans for the future and the work he would do soon enough comforted him as he waited for the next train. He could wait for now. Soon he would get his chance again and this time he was sure that he wouldn't fail.

* * *

_What a creepy deranged man this Meinhard is. No remorse at all. Tsk-Tsk. _

_Next time we go on a nice little fugitive recovery hunt and bring in a theme from Season Two of supernatural dreams of lost ones._

_Background information_

_Places in Germany: All of those are real. The Universities, what you can major in there, etc..._

_Union Station: There are three ways you can go on Amtrak and those are it._

_Pentothal: This is a relatively new drug that I came across when I was doing my research on amnesia, that is being used in hopes of speeding up the process of regaining lost memories; i.e. Peyton's scenario_

_The Return of Megan: Megan's return is not something that I randomly stuck in here. She was gone for six weeks in the show for her DOJ stint, and it has been six weeks since she left in this story. So, thus, sticking to Season Three (except for Colby), Megan is back._


	21. Shakedown

**Disclaimer: **See previous chapters.

**Author's Notes: **Figured tonight would be a better night than season premiere night. :) Thanks as always to all of my readers, and to all of my reviewers. Your comments are always taken into consideration.

_Just as you asked for Simanis, we are getting there. ;) This song by Bob Seger used to be the Beverly Hills themesong at one point, and boy is it ever awesome. _

* * *

"_It's a given L.A. law… No matter what you do I'm gonna take you down… Breakdown, Takedown, You're busted"_

_-Bob Seger-_

**281 South Gila Street**

**Yuma Amtrak Station**

**Yuma, Arizona**

**5:22 p.m.**

_Damn was it ever hot. _The brown haired man lifted a hand to his brow, wiping the sweat for the fifth time in the last ten minutes, the salty liquid sticky on his fingers. He wiped the moisture on the thighs of his jeans, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Sometimes he wondered why he continued to live in the city with the nickname of 'the place is hot'. Somehow it didn't add up, but after having his first assignment in Phoenix, he had never quite gotten around to moving back north.

Laurence Martinez, the lead agent from the Phoenix field office, shifted his stance next to a magazine rack in the train station of Yuma and looked down at his wrist. _5:23. _They had another thirty minutes until the one thirty-two train from Palm Springs was due in. Time enough for him to make sure his team was in place and ready to go.

After enjoying his lengthy lunch break, for all of fifteen minutes, Laurence had been called upstairs to the boss of the whole office, Special Agent Lewis. All thoughts of his tuna roll had been thrown out as he had read over the fax that had been slid across the desk to him. To have said that this was the most exciting case that had crossed his path in months would have been an understatement; nothing this exciting had happened in Arizona since Sadie Thomas had embezzled money from the little kids at the White Mountain Apache daycare and led them all on a wild goose chase.

The lack of details on the eight by eleven sheet of white paper had left much to guess at and many questions for his supervisor. Lewis had filled him in, giving away the story that some type of crazy serial killer had been plaguing their brothers over at the L.A. branch and had hopped a train after kidnapping one of their employees. Clearly Los Angeles was where he should have moved; the big cities always seemed to have the most fun.

Assigned the job because of his experience in fugitive recovery situations, Laurence had suited up and headed out with a team of five on their one and only chopper. Yuma wasn't too far away from Phoenix and the ride had been made shorter by the usage of the helicopter.

Touching down at around three, he had met up with the local police chief, an old man who looked like he belonged in an old John Wayne movie. Maps had been dug out from whatever old hiding places, and a plan had been formulated after an hour of arguing in this oppressive weather.

Their fugitive, Meinhard Ackerman, had been briefly spotted by cameras at the Palm Springs station, meaning he was still there. Further investigation- speeded up by some very well placed calls and sharp words from the L.A. office- had revealed that he had bought a one thirty-two ticket to Yuma, Arizona. Figuring in the time and distance, and adding in the time table at the ticket counter, placed the serial killer arriving around six, give or take fifteen minutes. Further confirmation from the conductor and his staff- sponsored by the use of a cell phone line- had affirmed that their man was indeed on course to arrive at Platform four.

The suicide drop of a woman's carry on bag and the scattering of its contents, snapped him back to attention. Bending down, Laurence quickly stuffed her belongings back into the leather bag, pushing it pleasantly but roughly back into her hands. He watched as she walked away, scanning the crowd and looking back down at his wrist. _5:38._

It was show time. Stepping out from his position by the magazine rack, he gave a small but perceptible nod to the average looking business man over by the lone drink vendor; the business man was actually a buddy of his and a member of his team.

The hot air of the dusty station blasted into his face, kicking his sweat glands into overdrive. Platform four was only modestly filled. _It would be better if no one was around._ He didn't exactly know how this man was going to react, but he was pretty damn sure he wasn't going to make it easy on them. The plan had involved the five members of his team and ten of the local police departments. Their objective was to trail the man after he left the train, hoping that he would move away from the busy station. The next train to the next stop was not due for another forty minutes so the guy wasn't going anywhere for the moment. His own men were stationed around the platform, half of the officers on the other side of the track and the other half back inside.

A shrill whistle blew, echoing down the wooden planks and through the glass of the station's windows. The ground began to shake and from four hundred yards away the light from the one thirty-two train from Palm Springs peeked its way around the corner.

Laurence gave one last look to his wrist. _5:42. _Right on schedule. His neck muscles popped as he rolled to the left and right, one hand subtly patting the bulge that was his gun under his jacket.

The train was three hundred yards out now, the brakes checking its forward movement and slowing it down to come to a full stop. _Time to shine, Laurence. _Something like this only blew into town every once in a while, and now was the time to act. _Time to bring a little action out to Yuma. _

---------------------------------------------

The stench of tightly packed bodies and limited space was imbedded in his clothes and skin now. He would more than likely never be rid of it. He had never been happier to see another station than right now. The ride from Palm Springs and Yuma had been a full one, unlike his previous stretch from Ontario where the four seats had belonged only to him.

His lip curled in distaste as the line finally cleared, his turn coming to step down onto the wooden planks. There were fewer people at this stop, probably due to the lateness of the day. Unless something had changed, he had roughly three quarters of an hour until it was time for the next stretch. He didn't have much farther to go, and soon he would be on a one way flight to Munich.

Meinhard side stepped a small child, curving his body inward to avoid any contact. The thought of touching any one of these people made his skin crawl. The air was fetid and hot here, more so than California had been. The relief of the air conditioning inside the station was only minute. Stuffy drafts circulated, making it only slightly less grueling inside the building than out.

His eyes surveyed left and right as he approached the ticket counter. Wary of anything that stood out, he joined the line, taking his place as third. He would speedily pay and collect his next ticket and then find a secluded area to wait out the next train; the one he had just exited was changing tracks to head north.

The line moved forward, the person in front of him stepping up and moving him into second. He glanced at the large bronze clock over the entrance way, checking the time out of habit. Being out in open for too long still made him nervous. He was always cautious, trying to put an end to anything that could possibly be detrimental to him before it even got the chance to happen.

The man was taking an inordinate amount of time to purchase just one ticket. Sighing in frustration, Meinhard shuffled his feet. Glancing back up at the bronze clock, a man caught his attention.

Subtly to confirm his suspicion, he made a move to rub his forehead, peering over his arm to get a closer look. It was probably nothing. There was no way anyone in Los Angeles could have tracked him here. It just wasn't possible-

Except that the man was coming closer and seemed to have a purpose in his walk and way that he kept staring him down. Something wasn't right. He turned his face forward, towards the ticket booth, looking sideways out of his eyes to watch the man.

The man in front of him left and his feet moved to the counter.

"How can I help you today?" The teller smiled out at him.

The shift of her eyes to the man coming closer confirmed what his brain was trying to tell him. He cursed under his breath in his native language, looking away from the woman as she shrank back in the booth and towards the man. He was moving faster now, and his eyes were drawn to the shiny gold badge at his belt.

The police officer halted as he too saw what Meinhard was looking at. A moment passed between the two of them, one where there eyes connected and held, time coming to a stop. And then the spell was broken.

Cursing the two men back in Los Angeles for messing everything up, Meinhard turned the other way, running opposite from the officer and around the ticket booth. His pace quickened, his long legs lengthening their stride. Shouts of "desist" and "stop" came from behind him and from more than one source. As he ran, dodging people and twisting, he saw other officers moving towards him.

Seeing one step out a hundred feet in front of him, Meinhard swerved, changing directions. He jumped over a suitcase, pushing the woman out of the way. He looked over his shoulder, not caring that she fell but more concerned about the seven or so men chasing him through the train station.

More people were pushed out of his way, some falling, others cursing and protesting. The doors to the entrance of the station loomed ahead, the sidewalk and road calling to him, salvation near. If he could make it out of here, he could head towards the wooded area that he had seen coming in. That area would offer plenty of coverage until he could get his hands onto a vehicle.

A cart crashed in his wake, his hands twisting and pushing it over as he passed by. His pursuers fell, their feet tangling over the mess and tripping over one another. Stupid fools. As if they could get him.

He was close. The double doors were only two hundred feet away now. He glanced over his shoulder again, grinning as he surveyed his damage to the place and officers. He was almost there. He was free—

Turning his head back around, ready to push through the doors and back out into the hot air, he saw the arm too late. It was impossible for him to stop, even though his brain sent the signal to his feet to turn or to do something.

The arm slammed into his neck, catching him right below his chin and across his windpipe, the force flipping him over and onto his back. His lungs screamed in protest, oxygen rushing out of them and not coming back no matter how hard he tried to suck the air in.

Blinking the dots from his eyes, the black fading from the corners of his vision, the face of the arm's owner came into view. He was of average height, with brown hair and hazel eyes. Over the front corner of his breast pocket were the letters, F, B, and I, staring down at him in a bold yellow color.

The federal agent peered down at him and Meinhard could do nothing as he squatted down and pulled his hands together, cuffing the wrists. Blinking heavily, he stared, dazed up at him as the man whistled and said, "Thought you were gonna get away didn't 'ya? Not this time, buddy."

Meinhard was yanked roughly to his feet, and he swayed forward. The agent pushed back on his chest, keeping him from leaning against him. His mouth opened and he tried to speak, finding himself still winded.

Again he could do nothing as the brown haired man grinned at him, holding his cuffed hands and motioning over his fellow agents. Passing him on to another set of hands, Meinhard cursed mentally at the grinning agent's words as he realized he was trying to say something,

"Don't worry. You've got some people back in L.A. that are just dying to talk to you."

* * *

**Huntzberger and Nost residence**

**Brentwood, Los Angeles**

**Living Room**

**8:46 p.m.**

Her eyes popped open, the oxygen in her lungs coming out in pants, the beat of her heart irregular; the muscle was currently jack hammering away behind her ribcage. Something had startled her from her sleeping position, jolting her awake.

Peyton glanced around the living room, taking a minute to gain her bearings. Thoughts lingered in the back of her mind, fleeing and slipping farther away as the seconds ticked by. She had been dreaming, of what she didn't know, but it had terrified her and left her with that residual fear upon waking.

Recognizing she had simply fallen asleep on the couch downstairs, she swung her legs out from underneath the heavy afghan and pulled herself up from the pillows now morphed to her body shape, and into a sitting position on the edge of the cushion.

Her head dropped into her cupped palms, the fingers grasping and relaxing her hair and scalp, massaging the roots and skin. The soothing feeling eased the tension in her head, a lingering side effect of the left over ketamine in her brain. Hushed voices from whatever Kathryn and she had been watching came from the illuminated television screen.

The fingers stopped their ministrations as another sound joined the muted voices of the television actors. The mournful voice of Stevie Nicks crooned from the stereo above the collection of Steven King's, increasing in volume until it was the only thing to be heard.

That was odd. She didn't remember turning on the stereo or putting in her Fleetwood Mac CD. And Kathryn had never been a huge fan of Fleetwood, never mind the fact that she had gone to bed after Peyton had finally snapped at her to finally get some sleep and to quit watching her like she was going to fall apart at any moment. There was nothing for her to remember to fall apart about.

A light was suddenly turned on, brightening the room and blinding her. Burrowing her face back down into her hands, she cursed loudly, "What the hell?"

"Language, Peyton. I know your father didn't raise you to talk like that."

Her head shot up and she blinked in the light, trying to see and adjust her eyes. She slowly sat up upon recognizing the woman in front of her shelves, fiddling and examining the stereo system.

The woman was of moderate height and slim build. Dressed in jeans and an old faded blue polo, she looked as if she could be heading anywhere at the moment. Under normal circumstances, Peyton would have been afraid of a random stranger appearing in her living room and deciding to play her collection of late seventies music. Except for the recognizable brown hair that curled down her back, and the dark blue eyes that gleamed and shined in the light. And the slightly upturned nose that was the only thing she had given her.

"Mom," her guest for the night paused from her perusing and turned to her, smiling. "You're looking a little old."

Cordelia Welsh, her mother, frowned at her statement and placed her hands on her hips, before saying exasperatedly, "Don't you know it's rude to comment about a woman's age?"

She laughed softly, "You died when you were nineteen." And it was true. Peyton had never met her mother, except for the odd random dreams where she liked to pretend that the woman, who so strongly resembled the teenager in her grandparent's photos, was indeed her mother. Cordelia Welsh had died of an amniotic fluid embolism, where the fluid had traveled to her heart, killing her instantly, in 1975.

Her dream mother- because this most assuredly had to be another dream, just like the ones she had had after her first serial killer case- shrugged her shoulders and left the shelves. Peyton shifted around on the couch, watching her as she moved behind her and over onto the other side, coming to sit on the couch's matching chair.

"This is your thing, darling. I'm just here. Besides, somehow I don't think you would take to listening to a nineteen year old's advice."

She shook her head. "What do you mean? Why are you here?"

"I'm here to help you."

A laugh escaped her lips, finding the situation funny. "What do you mean help? I don't need any help. I'm perfectly fine."

Just like she probably would have done had she of been around for the thirty two years of her life, her mother gave a dramatic sigh, and rolled her eyes. "Typical Huntzberger response. Believing that you can always take care of yourself and you don't need anyone else. So like your father there."

Done with this dream, Peyton pulled the afghan back up around her chest; closing her eyes in hopes of ending the idea that her and her subconscious would hash out what was plaguing her. After a moment of silence except for Stevie Nicks singing, she slit one eye open.

"You're still here," she stated, sitting back up and looking at her mother.

The woman in the chair sighed again- that was really starting to annoy her-. "Of course I'm still here. You need my help."

"What? What could I possibly need your help for? You haven't been here for thirty two years. I don't think that allows for you to waltz back into my mind or dream, or whatever this is, and play shrink with me. So, tell me, _mother,_ what could I possibly need your help for?"

She stared at her sadly, blue eyes searching her face, looking inside her. The dream conjured woman joined her on the couch and it felt very real when she reached out and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Did it ever feel so real; she shivered slightly.

"You need me because you don't know, yourself, what's wrong with you," she took in the confused look Peyton gave her and continued on, "Oh, you know what's bothering you. You always have been very good at that. But, you're blocking that from yourself, keeping it locked inside and hidden away. And that is not going to fix anything."

Peyton stared into her mother's eyes, finding it hard to look away once she had stated what she had been trying to hide. She opened her mouth, but stopped as the woman went on.

"And I know you're scared and that that fear scares you the most. But it's okay to be scared sometimes. It really is."

"Then what's wrong with me? What am I hiding?" she heard herself ask softly, the words rushing out as a mere whisper.

She smiled sadly at her. "I can't tell you that, sweetie. I wish I could. But it has to be something that comes from you or someone here. And it will only come out when you want it to, and when you are willing to face it yourself. You need to talk to someone."

Peyton was confused again, and her mind wandered, hearing the music in the background and focusing on the television screen. "Someone? Like who?"

The older version of what Cordelia Welsh might have been stood and kissed her forehead, moving away from her. "You'll know."

This was the part that was always the hardest of her dreams: the leaving and saying goodbye. Despite her assurances to everyone that she had always been fine with never having a mother, it still hurt somewhere inside. "What do you mean 'I'll know'? How is that supposed to help? How did you help me at all?"

Her mother pressed the button to change the disc, flipping forward to the track 'Dreams'. Turning back she said, "You'll know. Just trust me. And listen to him. He's good for you. I've already helped you more than you know; just listen to him and talk to him."

"What…" The woman faded, the room turning dark, Stevie Nicks dying…

Her eyes popped open, the oxygen in her lungs coming out in pants, the beat of her heart irregular; the muscle was currently jack hammering away behind her ribcage. Something had startled her from her sleeping position, jolting her awake.

The sound of her doorbell ringing, sounding loudly throughout the house, made her jump. Wondering how she had gone from sleeping to sitting on the edge of the couch, Peyton stood, letting the afghan fall from her lap.

The doorbell came again, and she quickened her pace, giving the stairs a look as she passed by, hoping the noise hadn't woken her tired friend. Judging by the lack of footsteps or any sounds from the floor above, it hadn't.

Digital red numbers on the side table told her it was 9:13 and she wondered who could be ringing their doorbell at this hour. Normally, if they wanted her, they just called. Cautiously, she undid the deadlock and opened the door.

Visions and snippets of her dream, rushed to her head as she looked at the person who had come to pay at visit at nine o'clock at night, ringing the usually disused doorbell. Her mother's voice played out in her memory. _"…And listen to him. He's good for you…talk to him."_

_'Sheesh, Mom, could you have been any clearer in whom you meant?'_ She sent her thought upward to wherever her deceased mother was.

Pushing the door fully open, Peyton side stepped to allow the man room. _'Alright, Mom, I'll take your advice.'_ After all mothers did know best.

Taking the invitation, he stepped into her doorway, running a hand through his hair. "Hey, Peyton."

"Hey yourself." She murmured back.

He turned to look at her, deep brown eyes full of concern in her hallway. "How are you doing?"

What a silly question that was. And he knew it too, judging by the awkward expression on his face. But, she reminded herself of her mother's parting words, and instead of lying like she had been with Kathryn, Peyton told the truth.

"Not so good, Don. Not good at all."

* * *

Alrighty. Small cliffhanger there. No one's in any immediate danger, except for some dishes. Comments for the chapter are most appreciated. Only four more to go... Roughly four. 

_Background Information:_

_Yuma scene: Lewis is the real Special Agent in Charge of the entire Phoenix field office, the only FBI office in Arizona. The Apache case is real, that lady really did steal the money from the day care. Laurence is made up. The train station at Yuma does exist at that address and the times for the train I did the math for and worked out. Charlie would be so proud._

_Peyton's Mother: Cordelia Welsh was always supposed to be dead. The backdrop is that her parents were never married, they got pregnant at 19, her mother died from an amniotic fluid embolism (in which the amniotic fluid travels from the womb to the heart and you die instantly) _

_The Dream sequence: This was a theme from Season Two that I thought was wonderfully put together in that episode. So, I put one in for myself. The emergence of her mother, can be whatever you interpret it to be. Whether, it is her from Heaven or Peyton's subconcious taking a form that she would listen to. But, I can say, that after my grandfather passed away, I had a dream of him one night and in my dream he appeared in the form of a younger man of himself. That is where the idea of an older Cordelia Welsh comes from. _


	22. Stand

**Disclaimer**: See previous chapters.

**Author's notes: **I apologize for the lateness in this chapter. A mild sinus infection has been kind enough to grace me with its presence and I figured that you would rather me what until I wasn't falling asleep every thirty minutes due to my medicine to proof read and adjust this chapter. :) But, I'm getting better, despite the cough, and am ready to roll. _Simanis_: thanks as always, and hopefully this satisfies you for now. :)

_This song, by Rascal Flatts, has helped me through some trying times. _

* * *

"_Cause when push comes to shove, You taste what you're made of… Decide you've had enough, You get mad, you get strong"_

_-Rascal Flatts-_

**Huntzberger and Nost residence**

**Brentwood, Los Angeles**

**Bottom Level**

**9:37 p.m.**

"Do you want something to drink?"

Don blinked, coming out of the trance like state he had been in, staring off into the space four feet above the Riviera painting on the wall positioned diagonally from the muted television. He slowly looked back down at the source of the question, feet uncurled from the chaise, hands placed on either side of her thighs, ready to push her upward and to the floor. His head nodded of its own accord and she sprang up; he noticed her wince slightly, thinking the pain more than likely came from the bruises hidden from sight beneath the oversized sweatshirt, grey with the large seal and letters spelling out Yale University.

As Peyton moved through the living room and crossed the imaginary line in the open space that separated this room from the kitchen, Don rotated his head, surveying the bottom floor of the townhouse. It was different than the first night he had been here. Then it had been trashed, a living example from a crime scene brought fresh into the home of one of their own. Then the floor had been littered with glass and splintered wood, the cushions of the couch underneath him upturned, pictures lining the hallway twisted or fallen.

Now it was perfectly normal, Kathryn probably having cleaned the left behind debris after the CSA's had run through it. No glass littered the floor. The couch was in perfect order beneath him. Pictures were immaculately straight. The only thing missing were the two wooden end tables that had previously taken residence on either sides of the couch; they had met the fate of the trash can, after having been thrown against the Riviera wall and splintering under the force.

"Damn it!"

He was on his feet at the sound of her swearing and the loud bang that followed right after, worried she had done something damaging. His mind was put at ease, the anxiousness dissipating when he found her. Standing in the apex of the counter where the two pieces came together at a point, Peyton was gingerly rubbing her wrist. Don looked to the left, seeing the open door to the refrigerator, and deduced that she had hit something while opening the door.

The offer of a drink forgotten between the two of them, Don closed the door, waiting patiently for her to say something. The past thirty minutes had seen only a few words and phrases exchanged between the two of them. She was drawn into herself, not at all like her normal character, lost in her own thoughts and he didn't exactly want to try and force anything out of her just yet.

Still massaging the skin above and below the cast, Peyton looked over at him, eyes luminescent in the dull lighting, and said, "Thanks. I forget that it's there sometimes. Stupid of me, I know."

He retreated backwards to lean and adopt the same stance as her against the counters. "Does it hurt much?"

Her tiny, slender fingers traced over the rough material, pale skin blending into the white of the plaster. Her head remained down as she answered quietly, "Yes and no. Sometimes it hurts worse than others. The pain killers take most of the edge away. Unless I hit it against something."

Silence stretched across the space between them, widening the gulf to yards instead of the mere five feet. This was how the conversation had been going, more effort on his part than anything else.

"You said you weren't doing too well," he tried, attempting to lead her into something.

Shoulders lifted in a noncommittal shrug, and she turned her face to look at something on the other wall, continuing her game of refusing to look him straight on. Dancing around the subject was proving to be a hidden talent of hers. "I…I don't know."

The answer to his lead in was delivered flat, without a trace of any emotion. It was then, watching her in the dimly lighted room that he discovered what was truly wrong with her. Bruises retreated to lighter skin, scars eventually faded, and pain retreated after some time. But things hidden deep inside never left; they only became bearable after acceptance. And that was her problem.

Not only was the woman in front of him dancing around the subject with him, she was dancing around the subject with herself. There was a reason why there were no emotions of any kind to be found in her responses. It was because she wasn't feeling anything. Peyton was refusing to evaluate her situation and instead of facing them head on, she was burying them down inside of herself.

"I get it. You're just feeling sorry for yourself," he said, forcing his tone to be slightly harsher than before.

That garnered a response. Her head snapped around to stare at him, eyes wide at his statement. "What did you say?"

"You heard me. You're sitting around here, moping and pitying yourself, while there are others who weren't as lucky as you were." Don continued to raise his voice, crossing his arms over his chest and curling the corners of his mouth into a slight sneer. If he could make her angry, then maybe—

Peyton's eyes narrowed at him, but they remained devoid of the fire that he knew she possessed. "How dare you—?"

He laughed, pressing on. "How dare I? I'm not the one sitting around wanting everyone to feel sorry for myself."

"I do not feel sorry for myself," she hissed out, her tone rising to match his.

"Really? 'Cause, I got to tell you Peyton, it's a little hard to tell."

Don watched her left hand clench, pleased at that movement. "You have no idea what I'm feeling, or what I went through. So, don't you dare stand there and tell me how I feel or that I'm feeling sorry for myself. You don't know."

"Then why don't you tell me." _'Come on, Peyton. Give me something here. Show me part of you is still in there.'_

"I don't know," Don growled, thinking she was going back to that same line. But she continued on, "I don't know anything that happened. Nothing. The last thing I remember is that news reporter and the press meeting. And then I woke up and found that I'm in a hospital with numerous injuries that I have no idea as to how they got there. And…I just feel so useless."

"Useless?" he asked, doubt and confusion at the meaning replacing the harshness.

Her chin shot upward, and she stared at him for a moment. Swallowing once, Peyton took a breath and then burst out, saying, "Useless. Yes, useless. Worth absolutely nothing. I can't even remember what happened to myself, and why, I have no idea. But, the only thing I do know is that somehow I ended up with a nice neat row of stitches on my chin, several cuts on my hands, various bruises on my body, oh, and don't forget the broken wrist," she held it out to him as if he had somehow missed that fact, "What good am I if can't remember what happened to my own body? To me!"

"Peyton, you're anything but useless,"

Don began, wanting to reassure her, but she cut him off, continuing on without hearing him.

"And I don't even have anybody to be angry at. I don't have a face or a name to put these injuries to. For all I know, it could have been you who did this, Don."

She let out a sigh, her tirade finished. Her cheeks were flushed, the white stitches standing out against her chin. His brown eyes locked onto her green ones, shining with the depth and passion of her declaration. Finally, he had gotten her somewhere, albeit after the use of different tactics.

"I can assure you that it wasn't me," he teased, giving her a smile.

"Good to know."

It was silent once more in the townhouse, the air conditioning the only thing his ears could detect. Don took a step towards her, reducing the gap.

Her eyes shifted back to his face, and her next sentence made him stop. "And I'm scared," she whispered, biting her bottom lip and looking at a point over his shoulder, continuing on to say, "I have nightmares when I sleep. Ones that leave me frightened and with the urge to run. To run as far away as I can possibly get. But once I wake up and open my eyes, I can't remember what the nightmare was about or what or who I'm running from. I don't know what to be afraid of. And that scares me more than anything."

He found himself wanting to tell her that the man who was responsible for everything was in their hands now. Don wanted to tell her that the two men who had kidnapped her were in federal lockup as well. But he couldn't. Because she would be a witness to the trial once she regained her memories- if she ever did regain them- they were forbidden from telling her anything about the case that she didn't already know. A defense attorney would jump on the idea that by telling her what had transpired over those three days, they had planted ideas in her mind rather than Peyton's own experiences coming forth.

Instead he settled for laying a hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze despite her muscles stiffening at his touch, and meaning every word as he said, "You don't have anything to be afraid of anymore, Peyton. I promise."

She nodded, shoulder muscles slowly relaxing. "Thank you."

He stepped back, his hand falling away. The light jacket he had worn in was somewhere back over in the living room, and he turned around to retrace his steps and retrieve it.

Peyton's footsteps followed him, faint but detectable against the tile and carpet. He stooped down, fingers grasping the material.

"Don?"

He paused, jacket half raised, and turned around to face her. Peyton stood next to the arm of the couch, rubbing the skin above and below her cast again. Blinking, he waited.

She didn't keep him waiting or having to lead again. "Do you mind staying for a little while? I could use someone to talk to and you seem to be good at it. That is if you don't have anywhere you have to be."

In truth he had nowhere else to be. He had sent the rest of the team home; Meinhard Ackerman wasn't due in the office until tomorrow morning and they would have to wait for the chance at cracking the man until then. He could leave and drive over to his childhood home, now his brother's house, and spend time with its owner and other occupant, but somehow he figured that she needed him a little more than they did, and Don could hear his father and Charlie agreeing silently in his head.

The jacket fell back to where it had been and Don straightened back up.

"No. I don't."

* * *

**Huntzberger and Nost residence**

**Brentwood, Los Angeles**

**Living Room**

**8:45 a.m.**

The first thing he became aware of was two voices. Judging by the sounds of them, they were both female and were somewhere in the general area above him. He wished they would go away and he squeezed his eyes tighter. They didn't stop and he gave up on attempting to block them out.

"Peyton, there's a man on our couch."

"Yes, there is." _That voice and name was familiar._

A pause and then,

"And why is there a man on our couch? No, why is the head of our FBI team on our couch?"

"Well, Kathryn," _He knew that name too._ "Don came over last night after you went to sleep. Don't look at me like that. Nothing happened. We talked and that was it. He helped me through some things. Well, forced is more appropriate. And it was late by the time we were done. What did you want me to do? Stick him behind the wheel of his SUV and let him run somebody over because he was half asleep?"

"How thoughtful of you. I thought I heard raised voices last night."

"And you didn't think to come downstairs and see what it was? There could have been a murderer in here and I would have died all because you didn't come downstairs. Some friend you are." Her tone was light despite the words.

Waking up slowly, he continued to listen to their hushed playful banter.

"I was tired. You would have screamed if it had of been anything threatening. So what do we do with him now? Poke him and see if he wakes up?"

He mentally snorted; neither one of them had better even think about poking him. He hadn't liked that twenty some years ago when Charlie had done that.

"No. Maybe the aroma of coffee will wake him up. Besides, I could use another cup."

"Un-hunh. It's worth a shot. That always seems to wake you up. Although, I don't think Dr. Funk had caffeine in his mind when he said you were supposed to be drinking plenty of fluids."

Footsteps brushed against the floor, and her reply came from far away. "Yeah, I'm sure that's not what he meant either."

He heard Kathryn snort, aloud instead of in her mind, and the television turned on, the volume instantly going down to a low level.

The sudden pressure of something really heavy dropping onto his chest jolted him wide awake and Don opened his eyes, blinking down at his chest. It was difficult to breathe. The sound of laughter came from the woman looking over at him next to the couch.

Kathryn immediately closed her mouth, stifling her laughter at the expression on his face. "You are in his spot," she said pointedly.

"Yeah, well, that wasn't the nicest way of telling me," he gasped out.

Caesar, Peyton's very large Maine Coon cat, stared down at him, tail lashing the air above his arched back. The cat kneaded his claws, yowling down and then butting his head against his face, clearly wanting some attention.

Don frowned up at Kathryn as she laughed again, watching him struggle to sit up and also give the cat what he wanted as well. Satisfied after a few rubs, Caesar left Don to push himself up and take in where he was.

"You missed it, Peyton. Caesar didn't take too kindly to finding Don in his morning spot," Kathryn called out.

No answer came and they both turned around. Peyton stood behind them, stock still, two steaming mugs of what was undoubtedly the aforementioned coffee in her hands. It wasn't that that had both of them calling to her in alarm. It was the way her breathing had changed to a slow pant and the way her eyes remained transfixed on something around the two of them.

"Sweetie?"

"Peyton?" Don didn't have any luck in a response either.

Following her gaze, he turned and saw that she was fixated upon the television screen. Kathryn had turned it on to the local morning news, words flying out of the reporter's mouth, the same woman that had reported on the case to begin with.

Don looked back at her, seeing that she was still enthralled and turned back to listen to what the woman was saying.

"…_And confirmation from another source reveals that the man behind the murders in the Bay area has been caught and fixed behind bars. No word yet on…"_

The two coffee cups slipped from her grip, falling to the white carpet, dark brown pooling to stain the purity of the fibers.

Peyton blinked once and then twice. Slowly, her eyes shifted back and forth between the two of them.

"Fix things. There was a man and he wanted me to fix a boy. His eyes… That was the problem with the boy. He wanted them blue. Just like…his eyes. So blue and cold. And blonde. He wanted me to fix them. The man knew German… I think… I think he was German."

* * *

**Los Angeles F.B.I. Field Office**

**Fourteenth Floor**

**Interrogation Room 3**

**9:54 a.m.**

To say that the man behind the glass wall had no affect on her would be a complete and utter lie. He repulsed her to no end. The man was disgusting, making her skin crawl as he sat there in the metal chair, ankles crossed, hands kneaded together on one knee, head cocked at an angle and blue eyes as cold as the silver glint from the table as he kept them directly locked on Colby's face.

She would have liked nothing better than to march through the door into the room opposite the separating glass wall and punch the German so hard that it knocked that smug smirk off his face. But Megan was far too well trained to allow her emotions to rule over logic, and no matter how hard she wanted to do it, she refrained herself. Instead she settled for watching Colby's attempts to crack the man and gain a confession from those lips. That and mentally envisioning herself smashing his face down and letting him get up close and personal with the table.

"So you're telling me that you don't recognize any of these four people? Aaron McCullogh, Sofia Friedman, David Elium, Keith Kelli? Not _one_ of them?" Colby slid the numerous photo shots across the table, punctuating each person with a stab and a flex of his forearm.

Megan shook her head, gun holster shifting under her arm as she rubbed her face, amazed how the arrogance of his face was conveyed even more so in his words.

Meinhard Ackerman made a show of taking his time in leaning forward and examining every face. Once done, he sat back and resumed his position. Sighing and shaking his head, he said, "I'm afraid not. I've never seen any of them. Though their injuries look very extensive and…so full of rage. Sad, really. Where did you say you found them, Agent Granger?" Those blue eyes gleamed, not fooling either her or Colby about the psychopath hidden behind them.

'_Sad that you didn't achieve your idealized goal, maybe,'_ she thought. Megan shook her head, waiting for his next response as Colby said, "In an old fishing factory built in 1912 down in Wilmington. You're telling me you don't know anything about that either?"

A slow grin broke out over his face, and Meinhard answered slowly, shrugging his shoulders, "Agent Granger, you said this building was built in 1912. By all means it must be abandoned by now. Anyone could have access to it. Drug addicts, the homeless, teenagers. Your country is so full of them these days."

Megan swore, doing a full lap around the small room and then leaning against the monitor table, palms braced outward. He was playing them like a fool. Meinhard knew they had no evidence that linked him directly to the crime. The money exchanged between Ricky Garza, Jose Garcia and Meinhard had been in cash only. The only prints had been found on the sleeve of Peyton's shirt and the syringe. Peyton's sleeve only tied him to her and wasn't nearly enough. Garcia's prints were on the syringe, connecting only him to the kidnapping. And now, both of the two lackeys had clammed up, refusing to affirm that Meinhard Ackerman had been their boss and contracted them out to kidnap four college students and one doctor. The two were obviously afraid and Megan couldn't blame them.

Thinking along the same frequency as her, Meinhard shifted in his seat again. "Agent Granger, you haven't told me exactly why I'm here. Is there something that I've done? I'm not quite clear on that subject."

Colby slammed both of his hands down on the table, sending some of the photos flying in different directions. To his credit, Meinhard didn't even flinch as the tall agent growled out, "Listen here, you son of a bitch. We know exactly what you did. To those students. To Peyton Huntzberger. We know everything. We even have Ricky Garza and Jose Garcia—"

"Ahh. So you do. But has either of them mentioned my name?"

Colby sat back, at a loss for the moment. Megan was at a loss too. They needed something against this guy. Some type of leverage. Titus hadn't found anything, and was reviewing every angle to the evidence and scene downstairs.

Seizing upon the moment and his victory, Meinhard leaned forward until he was right in front of Colby's face. In a chilling tone that belayed his smile he said, "I didn't think so. You say you know exactly what I did, but I see no proof in front of me. Where is it, Agent Granger? Not here. There in lies your problem. You have nothing. Don't you get it? It doesn't matter what you know. It doesn't matter what you do. You can't touch me."

David's arrival in the outer room saved her from doing something that she would have surely regretted later. Megan turned to him, waiting for the information shining in his face.

"Megan, that was Don. It seems that Peyton regained a partial memory this morning due to a news cast. She remembers this guy."

Should they dare to hope? "Are you sure?"

David nodded. "Positive. Don said she described the guy perfectly."

This was what she needed to wipe that smirk off the man's face. A tap on the glass and a jerk of her head brought Colby out, and she quickly passed on David's good news.

Megan watched in anticipation as Colby reentered the interrogation room, sitting back down and picking one photo out of the many. He placed the hospital picture of Peyton down in front of the man and asked, "Do you recognize her?"

Meinhard sighed again. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Agent Granger, I am positive that I have never seen this woman before in my life. Should I recognize her?"

Colby copied his move from earlier, leaning forward until he was in front of Meinhard's face and saying, "You should. She remembers you perfectly. Even matched up those blue eyes of yours."

Meinhard swallowed, tongue darting out to lick at his lips.

"What's wrong? You don't look too excited that Dr. Huntzberger remembers you," Colby paused before finishing with, "There was something you said. What was it? Something about not being able to touch you?"

Megan let out a small triumphant sound. She relished in Colby's tone and gained immense satisfaction from Meinhard's changed demeanor. Gone was the arrogance of a man who couldn't be blamed. Gone were the folded legs and tucked hands.

Beaten at his own game, Meinhard gripped the edge of the table, knuckles clenched, eyes narrowed at the single glossy photograph in front of him.

The curl of his lips in a feral sneer at her face revealed more than any of his cleverly guarded words had. Megan stared, remembering the psychopath that lurked just behind those gleaming eyes, and thought that Peyton was extremely lucky to have been found when had been.

Extremely lucky.

* * *

_Ah, so I was waiting with immense satisfaction for Meinhard to get his just desserts. :) Now, there's leverage for the lackeys as well. _

_Next time: Keith Kelli gets a visitor in the hospital, Megan takes the time out to go to lunch, and Meinhard finds himself with his own visitor. _

Background:

_Peyton's resurgance of memory: To state clearly, she did not remember everything that happened. Only a small snippet, from the part where the word 'fix' came into play (the one where CreepyMan! wanted her to tell him how to fix the dye for Keith Kelli's eyes). It takes therapy and other things to regain full memories of what was lost, and that will come into play as well before we close this story. However, a single word or phrase can trigger a lost memory, just as it is done in our own memories. Strong emotional events are still encoded in this type of amnesia, meaning they are still there, just hiding for the time being._


	23. You Gotta Be Broken

**Disclaimer: **Obviously, I do not own Numb3rs or Liz would not have been in last night's episode, and she most assuredly would not have been in the Craftsman.

**Author's Notes:** Two songs blended into one for this chapter. One a song from the 90's, the other from today. Special props given to Newgal; I did take your suggestion and add that part in, you'll see it down there. And to SG: I'm going to 'mis'quote that movie with Kevin Costner, "If you build [the foundation, it will come." ;)

* * *

"_I am damaged at best, __I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing, I tried my best to be guarded, I'm an open book instead"_

_-Lifehouse-_

The door closed and the boy turned from watching them leave with baleful eyes. A hand with the long, lean fingers of a musician lifted aside the faded, yellow curtain of the one lone window in his private room. He pressed his face against the glass, heated by the midmorning sun's rays, watching the people outside of the hospital as they came and went.

Growing bored, the curtain dropped as he let it slip between his fingers. A quick turnabout saw him facing his bed, the nightstand, opposing wall, and the door from which every day at exactly thirty minutes after nine his doctors came in to check on him. Everyday without fail they came, the doctor who was in charge of keeping ahead of the drugs' effects on his body and brain, the doctor who had been the first one to treat him, and the doctor responsible for assessing his eyes.

_His eyes._ They were damaged now. According to the doctors it would take extensive amounts of LASIK surgery to repair what had been done. He didn't really know what all had been damaged; the only difference he could tell was that his vision was atrocious now, the edges around everything blurry and fuzzy. It was only when someone was within five feet of his face that he could make out every feature about them, and even then the edges were still distorted. The thought that he couldn't pay for the surgery didn't bother him very much either; his medical bills were already nearing the cost of his college tuition and there was no way that he alone could add on the money needed to reverse the effects of the chemicals. The surgery would have to wait, and he could still function somewhat fine. No, that wasn't what bothered him the most.

_Why me?_

Those two words ended with a question mark were what were bothering him so bad. Why him? What made him the target? He just didn't understand and that was after those governmental agents had visited him and explained what had happened. He supposed he would never get the answer that he wanted; and he didn't know if any answer would ever be enough.

A clicking noise, followed by footsteps attempting to be quiet against the tiles, alerted him that someone had come into his room. The footsteps came closer and then paused.

Keith Kelli squinted towards the direction of the paused footsteps. Sometimes if he did that it helped. Maybe one of his doctors had come back. _Probably with more depressing news._

"Dr. Funk? Dr. Ecks?" He called out, the last name being his eye specialist.

"I'm not one of your doctors," a decisively female voice said.

He blinked. That voice didn't belong to one of his doctors or one of the regular nurses. "Do I know you?"

A shuffling noise came and he squinted again, attempting to make out something. His visual receivers picked up on the shape of a person standing in the open way that led to the door, passing the information on to his brain from his rods and cones.

"No. At least I wouldn't think so."

Fed up with not getting anywhere in the visual department, he called out in annoyance, "Well you're going to have to come closer. I can't exactly see as well as I used to."

The blurred form wavered, disappearing from his sight completely, and then suddenly coming into focus a few feet from him. There at the foot of the bed was a woman, short and small, her hair long and drawn away from her face. One hand rested on the top of the railing, the other against her hip; it took him a moment to realize that the whiteness was a cast.

"Who are you?" Despite seeing her as fully as he was going to, Keith still had no recollection of ever meeting her.

Her own eyes, a deep green color, studied him for a moment, and he hated the way she noticed his problem. She took a breath and then said, "They've probably told you what happened a week ago. I don't know exactly how much they did tell you—"

"They told me enough to get the general idea. Crazed, deranged, German killer. Wanted to change my eye color or something. That would be the reason why I'm still here," he cut her off, knowing he was being rude but not caring.

She nodded, taking a moment to digest what he had said. "Right. Then they would have told you that there was another person brought in with you. That was me."

Keith regretted his scathing tone and immature attitude. She had been in the same man's hands. "I'm sorry." And he was, although that still didn't explain why she was here though, and he voiced his confusion.

"My therapist recommended that since I keep bringing up my trouble in seeing you...," the words stopped and she choked, "In seeing you _there_ that it might be a good idea to come and see for myself that you were okay. He said it might ease my mind and rid myself of the guilt that I feel for what happened."

_Guilt? _"Well, _okay _is relative. I suppose you could say that."

She nodded again and neither of them said anything else. It was awkward: he didn't know what to say, and she didn't either, her hand twisting on the metal rail.

He wondered what she had to feel guilty about. The yellow, faded curtain caught his eye and he realized how lonely it was in here; the daily routine of his entourage of doctors might annoy him, but they were the only human contact he had. No one else came to see him, his family being non existent for the last three years.

If she was looking for atonement for something she believed he had done wrong, and if he was looking for someone to talk to, then Keith didn't see why both of them couldn't benefit. He swept a hand towards the small round table pressed into the corner, and the two chairs around it.

Moving slowly, she took a seat, and he could see well now that they were only two feet from one another. She still looked out of place as she glanced around at the walls.

"So, uh, you never told me your name. I guess you already know mine."

His kidnapped partner looked over at him. "Sorry, escaped my mind. Dr.," she shook her head, "No. You don't care about that. I'm Peyton Huntzberger."

"You're a doctor?"

"Not a medical doctor. A forensic doctor."

A guy on his hall was studying forensics. "Like CSI?"

Dr. Peyton Huntzberger let out a short laugh and shook her head. "A rather inept representation of what it is we actually do, but yes, like CSI…"

The minutes ticked by, unnoticed as they talked about everything from the poor representation of the medical and law enforcement fields by Hollywood to what had happened eight days ago.

And later when his entourage of doctors and nurses came by at noon, he didn't even notice or mind, choosing to continue his discussion with the only other human being that had come to see him.

---------------------------------------------------------------

The line of people waiting to be checked in was longer than usual due to the flood of her fellow agents arriving back from lunch. Security dictated that they had to wait their turn, then march through the metal detectors, retrieve their gun, and finally show their badges before being allowed to move towards the elevators. That explained why she was standing behind ten other colleagues instead of already on her way back to the fourteenth floor and her team.

Megan stepped forward, moving up to number nine. Thinking ahead, she unclipped the holster at her side and scanned the first floor. The mass activity and chaos down here strongly resembled the mass activity of her team. Agent Loosle was still overseeing their case, following up on every note they passed; and now the U.S. Attorney's office was on their backs, pointing their fingers and nosing around to make sure everything was ready for them to go to trial when the time actually came. They wanted a solid case before Meinhard was transferred up north to the federal court for their area. No chances of appeal or mistrial.

Colby and David had been given the task of running down the background check on the psychopath at the request of the attorneys, looking for anything else they could tack on to his charges. The prosecutors' hunch had paid off, information about Meinhard's business in South Carolina coming to light.

In fact, she thought as she replaced number seven, that was where her partner was. Don had gone over to the Detention Center where Meinhard was being held to see if he could get any names from the guy. The chance of him actually getting anything was doubtful. Megan had seen the man when Colby had interviewed him. He was an arrogant, self-centered, manipulative, killer. But he was also a highly intelligent man who wasn't about to give anything else away that easily. Likely, Don would return empty handed, but filled with the man's carefully crafted words that stung in all the right places. Meinhard was very good at that, and she had warned Don to be careful when talking to him. She only hoped that the warning had taken.

Finally it was her turn. _And about time too._ Megan handed her gun over to the security detail who looked just as bit as impatient and tired as she did with the lines. No incessant ring came as she walked through the open metal frame, and her gun was given back with a forced smile.

Her badge was given a quick scan, the woman matching her face to the name and the number and then waving her on. Now came the waiting for the elevators and she took her place in the crowd of other persons. The sound of the metal detectors, machines, and people still reached her. Her face turned and she watched them for a minute, thinking only that she was relieved that it wasn't her over there.

With the closing of this case, their team was slowly putting themselves back together. Colby and David were fine with having something to keep their hands on. Titus had been kept busy downstairs for the last eight days, running the evidence and pushing it through the system faster than the normal time it took. Having placed the man responsible in jail, Don had ceased pacing the office like an animal and both he and Kathryn had taken to seeing that their doctor was stable. The only information that had been passed on about her well being had been via the two of them. No one else had seen her since then.

And that only left her. Megan was the last member of their team, the one that was meant to hold them all together, and at this moment she was barely holding on to herself. The memories of her task with the Department of Justice still haunted her, plaguing her mind with never ending questions and scenarios. She was the one left that needed to be put back together, but from her vantage point it wasn't all clear.

All four elevators opened at the same time, their passengers exiting as one. Megan stepped aside to move out of one man's way, looking at the elevator next to her and turning quickly back to take another look. She would recognize that blonde hair and short body anywhere—

"Peyton?"

The woman that no one had seen for eight days besides Don and Kathryn paused at the sound of her name, looking up from her hands and across to where the sound of her name had come from. Recognition dawned in her eyes and Peyton pushed her way around the coming and going in front of the elevator. The two women moved to an alcove on the side, secluded as best as they could be during the late lunch hour rush on the first level.

Megan's eyes flitted over the woman in front of her, her natural talent taking over. The five feet tall doctor had always fit the image of petite fully, tiny and not weighing much over one hundred and ten pounds, but she had lost a considerable amount of weight; it showed in the thin, tightness of her face and the protruding of her collarbone and hip visible on the neck of her loose shirt and skin that peeked out from under the hem. A small thin line curved from her chin to an inch or two along her jaw, the freshly healed skin a faint white color. Her right wrist was encased in a hard cast and she held the arm bent and in front of her stomach.

But for all of her external injuries, Megan could read the strength in her eyes and stance, shoulders thrown back, spine straight, and head held high.

"Megan, I didn't know you were back," Peyton said, voice the same as it had been seven weeks ago.

It took her a moment to realize she had said anything, and Megan shook her head. "Yeah. I got back a week ago. After you were…"

She nodded, saving her from having to mention what had happened. "Right. That would explain why I didn't know." A smile was given and the profiler couldn't help but notice how it stretched her cheekbones.

"You're not back yet are you?" Megan was confused as to why she was even here.

Green eyes looked sideways back to the elevators. "Oh. No. I had a meeting with Director Merrick at one. He wanted to assess how I am doing and express his deepest apologies for what happened. I won't be back for at least another two weeks. Possibly more."

That made more sense. "How are you doing?" she asked after a moment, cautiously throwing out those four words that meant much more than the time it took for her to say them.

Peyton blinked, opening her mouth to give an immediate answer, but then stopping to consider it. Satisfied, she looked up at her and said with a smile on her face, "Okay. I'm doing okay. Much better than what I was. The drugs are all out of my system, the withdrawals leaving migraines and the inability to want to eat anything. Therapy is helping, the psychiatrist doing much more than what I thought he was going to. The memories are coming back in bits and pieces, sometimes through the nightmares and sometimes through the sessions. But I'm doing better than I was. I just need a little time."

That was a better answer than what she could have hoped for, and Megan could see that it was the truth.

It was her turn to be scrutinized. Peyton cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. "How are you doing?"

_Was it that easy for her to read?_ Judging by the look on her face as she waited for her answer, it was that easy. Maybe Peyton was just good at reading people. Or maybe because she was damaged too, she could tell that Megan was damaged. _Misery loved company, didn't it?_

"I'm just working through some things," she finally answered. Her stint with the Department of Justice was still classified and at best that was the most she could say.

That answer seemed to satisfy her, and perhaps she recognized by the tone of her answer that that was all she could say. "It seems that we all are doing a little of that these days."

She smiled at the meaning behind Peyton's words, glad that she was doing well and understood not to ask for anymore at the moment.

"Like you said, I just need a little time," Megan quoted.

_Now if only it would work for her like it was working for Peyton._

* * *

"_You gotta be tough, You gotta be stronger, You gotta be cool, You gotta be calm, You gotta stay together"_

_-Des'ree-_

The hall of the jail was drafty and cold, the air conditioning blowing steadily. Sadly though, the cooler air did nothing for the smell of the place. He would never show it, but walking past the inmates, some of them ones that he had placed in there, was something that if given the chance he would take a pass at.

A whistle came from somewhere to his right, the large, tattooed man making a show of himself by pressing his face hard against the metal bars, hoping to unnerve them.

"Hey! Settle down in there," Don's escort, a man who looked like he could stand his own ground in a place like this, leaned over from his right and thumped the bars next to the tattoo man, "Shut up, all of you. What did I tell you about making a monkey out of yourself, Jim? Keep it up and we'll see who's the one laughing at the end."

They had come to the end of the hall and past the bored inmates who had jumped at the chance of doing something instead of sitting in their bunks. The guard held the door open for him and Don entered the small room. It was a waiting room, one he was familiar with. There were many of them placed throughout the jail, each with only two doors, one where they had just come through and the other leading into another short hallway that had one corner and then another door; that door led into an interrogation room used by the federal agents here on business, because none of them ever came here for the simple trip, and the attorneys for both parties.

Don watched as the tall guard outfitted in his standard uniform crossed the five feet to the other door and then looked back at him.

"Sorry about that. They get rowdy whenever one of you guys show up," the man shrugged his shoulders and gave him a smile like 'what are you going to do about it?'. Another time and he might have laughed softly or humored him with a response. But not this time. He didn't want to be here to begin with, having no desire to see the man that would be waiting for him in that interrogation room. "If you'll just wait here, Agent Eppes, I'll go and check to see if the prisoner is ready."

He was left alone and Don found his mind occupying the time by counting the concrete blocks and letting his thoughts flow. Adjusting to the draft, he pulled the sides of his jacket closer and leaned back against the wall.

Don hadn't been to the Metropolitan Detention Center in close to almost a year. Los Angeles' federal prison was reserved for those who had committed the worst of the worst, having been hunted down, fished out, and arrested by those who served this city just like him. The man he had come to see, their now captured fugitive, was being held here until transfer to the prison that served the U.S. District Court for California. No doubt he would not be long there after his trial. Don foresaw an immediate transfer to San Quentin.

The handle jiggled and the door opened, the squeak of the metal hinges magnified in the room. The guard from before, who he had not caught the name of even though he had introduced himself, stood in the doorframe and nodded his head once.

"The prisoner is ready for you, Agent Eppes."

Words of gratitude spilled from his lips as he passed by, feet heavy as he stopped outside the interrogation door. On the other side of the silver door sat a man responsible for three deaths, the partial blindness of a young man, and the kidnapping and harming of an employee of the FBI. One turn away was the monster who believed himself the savior of the 'perfect' ones on the Earth. What was it that Megan had diagnosed the man as? _A psychopath with sociopathic like tendencies all rolled into one._ His partner had warned him that the man was dangerous, endowed with the ability to coolly manipulate you with his words and leading you into his trap before you recognized it.

He shook his head, clearing all of those thoughts from his mind. He needed to be the one that was calm and cool, the one in charge of the situation, and he couldn't do that if his brain was too busy thinking about five different things.

The door opened with ease, pressure from his wrist combined with the turning motion opening it. It was a standard interrogation room: a table, four chairs, and a camera placed high in one corner to record their actions. However, the man shackled to the table by his wrists and ankles was anything but standard. In fact, this case had to be one of the most unique he had ever come across in all his years.

Even chained like the animal he was and dressed in a jumpsuit, Meinhard Ackerman still managed to look normal. It was the fact that at first glance the German looked like any other blonde haired man. He could even be mistaken for a devoting father. But look a little while longer and that smile seemed to curl at the ends, taking on a sneer, and those blue eyes started to glint with an inner cunningness.

Those blue eyes followed him as Don took the seat opposite of him.

"Ah. I see they have been kind enough to send me another guest. Do thank them for me. It gets so lonely here," The eyes narrowed as Meinhard studied his face, taking in the dark hair, eyes, and facial features. Never before had he given much thought to the heritage of his features; Don was conscious of how he looked, but it had never mattered all that much. But to this man it did. It bothered _him_ very much from what he could tell behind those pale eyes. "Though I do have to say that the other agent was more preferable to you. So much… lighter." His words trailed off at the end, letting them speak for themselves on just how Meinhard didn't approve of his dark visage.

Don didn't say a word, refusing to give the man any satisfaction. Truth be told, if he strayed from his objective he would more than likely end up letting his fist slip into Meinhard's face. Flicking his eyes down to the tan colored folder he had placed onto the table, he lifted the bottom corner and opened it.

"The U.S. Attorney's office has asked me here today. I'm supposed to ask you about your time in South Carolina. Further background information provided us with the knowledge that you were involved in some other disappearances in the city of Aiken. In return for the confirmation of the missing victims the attorney's office is willing to consider removing the death penalty," he stated in a concise manner, speaking evenly and giving no indication on his face as to what he felt.

Colby and David, after finishing with their meetings with SAC Loosle and the Director, had gone back to any information they had found on Meinhard, looking for something useful for the attorneys. An old rent bill had revealed that Meinhard had contracted out the space in a building used for storing steeplechase racing equipment; the building had been much like the factory in Wilmington: secluded, old, and big. In the six months that he had been in the small town in the southern state, seven people had gone missing, three of them college students from the University of South Carolina in Aiken. Those three had never been found, and if Don could get the creep to give up their locations it would give three families some form of closure. If not, then it was out of his hands and would become the problem of the FBI office in South Carolina.

Meinhard tilted his head back and studied him before saying, "But you don't agree with that do you?" The part about being able to read what you were really thinking came back in the form of Megan's voice whispering her warning inside his head.

He locked eyes with Meinhard, staring at him directly and not giving an inch, determined to be just as hard back. "What I think isn't relevant here. What is relevant is the three college students who went missing in the six months that you lived in Aiken."

The ice eyed man continued to dodge his question, inhaling through his nose and moving his hands together, chains rattling and drawing Don's attention. His eyes moved back to Meinhard as he spoke. "But you still have an opinion."

"And I don't see how you telling you what I think is going to get you to confirm those three names. So, I really don't see fit in telling you my opinion."

The German nodded. "I'll give you that. It won't make a difference to me. But it might ease your mind. You're chomping at the bit to tell me what you really think. I can read it on your face and in your eyes."

He wasn't going to get anywhere with this man. Meinhard wasn't going to give up those names; after all there was nothing in it for him. He was going to jail no matter what, the crimes against humanity, multiple murders, and brutality because of race seeing to that. The offer of removing the death penalty held no value. He was going to die anyway.

Don closed the folder with a snap, pushing back his chair and standing. Those blue eyes followed his every move again. Looking down at the chained yet still proud man, he said, "I can see you're not going to give me anything. I didn't really think you would. You haven't cooperated at any step. The evidence will be enough to get you sent away, and the testimony by your two accomplices will be extra. As for what I think, I think it doesn't matter whether you get the needle or not. Nothing will be punishment enough for you. Or justice for what happened."

He made it as far as the door with the folder in his hand before Meinhard decided to speak again, his words causing him to freeze.

"How is she doing?"

Don's other hand hovered over the handle, and Meinhard continued on,

"The doctor. How is she? Does the pain still hurt? Have the nightmares set in yet?"

Don didn't know how Meinhard knew that he was involved with Peyton. They had never been seen together to his knowledge in front of the man, but somehow he had known. A chill traveled down his spine and he was torn between letting it show or turning around and wrapping his hands around the man's neck. _His words mean nothing. He can't get to Keith Kelli, and he can't get to her._

His hand closed and turned to the right, the door swinging open. Don moved out and left, past the guard who questioned why he was done so early, ignoring him. His feet echoed against the walls.

Slow laughter flowed out of the room and chased him down the hall, the twisted, distorted sound wrapping around his mind.

San Quentin would be far too nice of a place for Meinhard Ackerman.

* * *

_Single longest chapter I have written. It just kept growing. Keith Kelli decided he wanted to share his feelings a little more._

**Background Information:**

_Megan: As we can all tell from the beginning of Season Four, she is not okay. There are some things that are still haunting her from her stint with the DOJ. _

_Meinhard: In the state of California the federal trials for the Los Angeles area are held at the U.S. District Court for the state of California(the Supreme Court for CA). Metropolitan Detention Center is the federal jail in Los Angeles and is where Meinhard would be held before transfer. In the state of CA, the death penalty can be given according to a certain number of charges. Meinhard completes a Triumvirate: 1) Multiple killings, 2) murders of an especially heinous kind, and 3) murders because of race, i.e the experimentation and killing because of Jewish ancestory or visage. San Quentin is where you go to wait on death row for that lovely cocktail. And a psychopath and a sociopath are not quite the same thing, though you can, as in Meinhard's case, exhibit both disorders. _

_South Carolina: Aiken, S.C. is a very small town in the western part of the state. Steeplechase racing- a form of thoroughbred racing- is what it is famous for. And the Uni. of S.C. in Aiken does exist, and as we all know now, college students are what Meinhard likes to experiment on. _


	24. All I Really Want

**Disclaimer:** If Liz is still on the show tonight, then you know I still don't own Numb3rs. If by some chance she has been randomly written off, I can assure you that it is indeed mere coincidence.

**Author's Notes: **Apologies in the delay, and I take full credit. Life has decided to throw everything at me for the last seven days. Not your fault, and doesn't make up for it but there it is. Amber: Many thanks for your review. Made me very happy. I've put an explination at the end for the title and for anyone else as well. :)

_And, I have always loved Alanis Morisette._

* * *

"_All I really want is some peace man, a place to find a common ground, And all I really want is a wavelength, And all I really want is some justice..."_

_-Alanis Morissette-_

'_Plink. Plink. Plink…'_

If he was a common or simple man, the incessant dripping of the tepid fluid from the lone faucet might have caused his mind some stress. But he was not just any simple man.

A long time ago, when he was younger, Meinhard had learned the trick of barring his mind from the outside world. The psychological barrier he raised to shield himself was similar to that of a concrete wall: thick and impenetrable unless he chose to bring it down.

Thus, the noise from the sink didn't bother him. Besides, a guard had let slip the fact that he was due to be transferred in less than two weeks from now. By sitting on his thin cot and facing the wall, appearing to be oblivious, he was able to listen and pick up on the gossip of the place. It was yesterday evening, after his utterly unsatisfying dinner, that he had discovered the tidbit that was actually pertained to him.

Two weeks left here. After that a one way ticket on a federal correctional bus to up north would bring him to his new residence, at least until the trial was over. His trial would last for a long time, the magnitude of the case as well as the severity of the accusations against him requiring an equally large and severe trial.

Meinhard did not lament the fact that he had been discovered or brought in as he sat there on his cot. Everyone was eventually discovered. No one remained obscured and hidden from sight for all of eternity. He had had a good and long ride; with countless years of studying and experimentations paired with a substantial amount of human bodies, he was satisfied with what he had done, though a few more years of work would have been nice.

He would be remembered long after they placed him in the ground, dead and old. His name, Meinhard Ackerman, would be found years later from now in the same books as Josef Mengele and Sigmund Rascher. They could kill him, but he would still live on.

The only thing he did lament was his wish for one more year. He was sure that he only needed a few more bodies to perfect his formula, just as he had been so sure that his answer would have been found in the words of the female doctor. Certain of that, it would have been a very different story if she had of helped him.

No matter though, her mind was twisted now. Meinhard had gotten his revenge on her, the disgustingly Jewish agent from yesterday having given him his answer as to her status.

He could at least take consolation in that fact as he blinked for the first time. Surveying the small room for the umpteenth time since he had been remanded to custody, he added the fact that he was alone to his list of consolations. The chatter of a companion did nothing for him, and his remand had seen to it that he was placed under twenty four hour surveillance by himself.

"You have a guest, Ackerman."

Slowly, he turned his head rightward to face the guard, letting the corners of his mouth twitch. Inwardly he wondered who had come to see him now. As far as the gossip had divulged, no one from either the F.B.I. or the U.S. Attorney's office was scheduled to see him. His empty words had spoken for themselves, sending the message out about his refusal to cooperate or plead down.

The guard eyed him, uncomfortable with his charge. "No funny business."

Meinhard nodded his head, giving in to what the man wanted to hear before he would leave to bring his guest to the front of his cell. People, he had come to realize, were very easy to read.

Shuffling noises regained his attention to the front of his cell, and he stood sharply at realizing who it was that was on the other side. His eyes widened a fraction for a second, and he quickly regained his composure at having something thrown at him unexpectedly. He had not counted on seeing her again.

Across the hall, standing straight and still, was the woman who could have helped him. Her arms were folded calmly over her chest, the blonde hair pulled back, and the eyes the same perfect shade of green. Those green eyes stared at him, unwavering in her fake confidence.

"I hadn't expected to see you again," he said, walking forward the few steps to get as close to her as possible. Her showing up again was just an added bonus, another chance for him to tear her apart.

Surprising him, she continued to stare him down. "I bet you didn't," and then she was moving. Her arms uncrossed themselves, and she took a step closer before raising her chin and continuing on to say boldly, "I came to tell you a few things before you are moved."

"Really? You didn't have to do that on my account," his muscles worked in his face, bringing a sneer to his features. "And just what is it that you have come to tell me?"

Of all the things he was waiting for- that what he had done was wrong, he was a monster, or the hollow assurance that she wasn't afraid of him- he didn't expect this one.

"I came to tell you that I know what was wrong with your dye. A simple slight modification to the formula could have produced more desired effects. And I know why it wouldn't take."

His teeth gritted, and he desperately wanted to reach through to her. Instead he tried for his sought after answer as to what he had been doing wrong.

She laughed softly to herself, and shook her head. "I don't think so."

Taking a second to even out his tone, he glared at her coolly. "Then what is the real reason as to why you are here if you won't tell me what I want?"

The forensic doctor and withholder of information cocked her head to the side, and examined him before saying anything. "Why don't you tell me? I've heard you're good at reading minds."

The darkness in him surged forward, and a thrill ran through his mind. His face twisted and he hissed out, "You hate me, but you can't get me out of your mind. I'm everywhere to you, and there is nothing you can do about it. It's only natural your obsession would drive you back here."

His prediction didn't gain the response he had been hoping for, and he was beginning to think that he had been wrong about her. But that was impossible…He was never wrong.

Boldly she moved again until she was looking directly in his eyes, only inches of metal separating them. "You couldn't be more wrong. I came here to tell you that when I walk out that door, I will not think about you again. Ever. But you…You will think about me for the rest of your life."

She whispered the end of her conviction, and he was left with no words, forced to watch her give him one last look before turning completely away. Spine straight and head held back, she walked out the door, true to her words. Not once did she spare him a backwards glance.

_'…plink. Plink. Plink…'_

His reluctant guard returned to stare in wonder as for the first time since being locked up, Meinhard allowed the outside world to infiltrate and bother him. Screaming in rage, he threw everything he could get his hands on. The sheets and the lone pillow were hurled towards the sink.

Gasping for breath, Meinhard looked at his hands, shocked to see that they were shaking. This wasn't right. This was not how it was supposed to happen.

And he was left by himself. Utterly alone, his only companion the steady drops of water…

_'…Plink. Plink. Plink. Plink…'_

* * *

Someone had once said "_defer no time, delays have dangerous ends"_. He couldn't exactly remember who had said it; the name Shakespeare came to mind. English had never been his strong suit, and certainly not iambic pentameters and the likes. It didn't matter who had said it; he figured it only mattered that he was living by the words. 

Charlie stopped for a moment in mid thought. Perplexed, he rocked back on his heels and examined his work. A sudden possibility for his Theory had hit him after his early-afternoon class, prompting him to drive home and seek his work in the garage. The last time that he had stopped to check the time, he still had another two hours before his final class of the day.

Satisfied with where he was going, Charlie resumed writing on the blackboard, white chalk flying with dust rising, then falling, and then rising again when mixed along side the new dust in a never ending cycle. Every so often he would pause and shuffle the scattered papers around to check something and cross reference it before continuing on. It made for an even pattern, and one in which he was comfortable and used to.

Numbers and esoteric symbols flew from his brain down his arm only to reappear as a new line replaced the last in his mind. As he worked, Charlie reflected on the normality of the scene. Things were slowly piecing themselves back together. There were no federal agents hounding him for his brain. His brother wasn't here to interrupt and seek his help. The silence spoke volumes after two weeks of everyone holding their breaths. _Now, if he could only get Larry to come back, the status quo would really be restored._

He shook his head. His dear friend had returned from his space travels a few days ago. Instead of rejoining them, Larry had placed himself in a monastery, telling them that he needed time to readjust to Earth and her people. While he didn't understand all of the reasoning, Charlie respected his friend's wishes and would wait until the time was right for him to come back.

The uneven staccato of the chalk echoed in the cluttered garage. So absorbed was he that when the knock came it went unnoticed. Only when the door actually turned and the light filtered in through the opening, caught by his peripheral vision, did he actually stop.

"I tried calling. First your office, and then your cell. You didn't answer and Don mentioned this would probably be the best place to go next," cautiously the person stepped through the doorway and into his silent place, looking around once and then back at him. "I'm not interrupting you am I? I just wanted to catch you before I left."

Blinking out of his daze of seeing her, Charlie shook his head. He suddenly remembered the chalk in his hand and the white dust that had settled on his clothes and no doubt in his hair as well. The chalk was replaced to its resting home, hands wiping his fabric. Charlie frowned as it did nothing and gave up.

The knocker had ventured closer, and was now peering at the board and his work. He noticed that she shifted from one foot to another; her fingers lightly scratched the plaster covered wrist, the skin itching after several days as all casts eventually did. The petite doctor certainly looked better than when she had been hospitalized, that visual image being passed on by his brother.

"So this is the famous work of Dr. Charles Eppes, huh? The much anticipated Cognitive Emergence Theory." Peyton said, her teasing snapping him out of his thoughts of hospitals and broken bones.

He tilted his head and opened his mouth to ask her how she knew what his blackboards had divulged, but she read his question and beat him to it.

"You shouldn't be surprised by how many people talk about you. Even in my circles. Word gets around. Besides, it's better this way. You'll stun them when you finish with it and you're nobody until you've been talked about."

He smiled at her. About to respond with something of his own, the last part of her first statement jingled in the back of his brain, resurfacing and raising another question. "It's nice to see you back again, but did I hear you say you were leaving?"

The second doctor in the garage turned her head left and right, indicating a negative. "No. I mean yes. I am leaving, but I'm coming back. I'm flying to D.C. tonight to take care of some things back there. Well, to actually see my father," the last part was said reluctantly, her face brightening as she moved on, "So, you see I'm coming back. In five days. You didn't get rid of me that easily."

Charlie understood. His father had helped him many a times, his advice seeing him through and often providing another way to look at a certain problem. "That's good. You look good," she raised an eyebrow at him, and he hurried on to say, "I mean, you appear to be better than what, uh, Don said you have been."

"Yeah. Your brother's been very helpful to me. That and my psychiatrist. And Kathryn of course."

The silence of his sanctuary reined, each of them not knowing what to say after that subject had been breached.

Finally after a few long pauses Peyton turned to look at him directly. She scratched at her skin, taking a deep breath and then letting it out in a huff. "I won't take up much more of your time. I can see that you were working on something. I came here because I wanted to say thank you."

"Thank you for what?"

She raised her eyes to his, all teasing and humor erased. "I want to say thank you for saving my life. I know that it was you who figured out where he had me. The team told me, and I needed to say something."

It meant a lot to him to hear her say that, but it wasn't necessarily true. Charlie could see how nervous she was. He thought for a moment before he opened his mouth. "Peyton, that's…it means a lot, but it's not necessary. I was doing my job—"

An index finger came up to forestall him. "Don't. You can say you were doing your job all you want, Charlie, but the truth is that you did indeed save my life. Meinhard Ackerman was too smart of a man to leave behind anything that would lead the others directly to that factory. It would have taken them at least two more days to find something to tie him there. Those were two days that I didn't have. I know that. So, yeah, you might have been doing your job, but you are still probably the reason for why I am standing here in your garage. And that has to count for something."

His throat constricted and he didn't know what else to say. He had never really examined that particular angle of the matter. Just when he thought he had a proper response, she laid her good hand on his arm and gave him a small squeeze.

Charlie watched, stunned, as she left him, pausing in the doorframe to look back. "I just wanted to say thanks and I really am thankful for your genius mind. I'll be back, so enjoy your time for your work. I'm sure your brother will have something for the both of us by the time five days have passed."

And then she was gone and he was left still there, in the same spot as before she had knocked and entered. Sorting out his thoughts, he flicked his wrist and looked down. The hands on his watch told him he had a good hour before he needed to be back at school, not including variables such as traffic and road construction.

The white chalk found its way back between his fingers and a smile spread across his face and stayed there, his memories replaying what had just happened. Seconds later and he had regained his momentum, his numbers and symbols taking over.

The uneven staccato of the rapping chalk merged with the silence of his garage to create a totally unique sound that was his life's soundtrack. It was to that he worked for the next hour and so it came to no big surprise to his students when their professor showed up fifteen minutes late and out of breath.

That was after all the second track to his life.

* * *

His holster, gun, and phone clip made a low thud as he dropped them onto the table, much like they had six weeks ago when he had come to his childhood home in a manner very similar to this. Satisfied with where they were, he left them, moving away from the entrance area. 

Don lifted a hand to run through his hair, slowly sliding it down over his face and then kneading the muscles of his neck. It had been a long day and he for one was glad that it was over. The case of Meinhard Ackerman and his two accomplices was over, the mastermind out of his hands and ready to move, and the juniors in custody until their trial. Both of them had worked out a deal with the attorneys, eventually pleading down to lower charges in exchange for information to be used against the big guy; though each would still go away for a very long time.

His team's job was done. The folder closed, and the evidence awaiting the warehouse for storage. The only loose end was the crimes in South Carolina, but that belonged to that field office, and would become their job. He wasn't sorry to see the whole ordeal end. It had tested and pushed all of them, and he was starting to welcome the old cases of kidnappers and arsonists that he had once thought hard.

No answer came as he called out first his father's name and then his brother's. A glance down told him that it was only a little after nine. Neither of them had mentioned anything about plans for the night, but he never knew. Charlie could be working on something, though he hadn't seen the familiar lights on in the garage. Or the genius could possibly be with Amita somewhere, and his father could have decided to have dinner with Millie.

"Hey, Donnie," Alan came through the swinging kitchen door, foiling his idea about Millie. "I thought I heard someone in the driveway. I didn't think it was Charlie. He just left a little while ago with Amita. She actually managed to drag him out of the garage."

Don let out a small laugh at his father's expression at the end of his sentence. Feminine wiles had won out over the lure of Charlie's numbers. _Good for Amita; Charlie could use a night out._

It took him a moment to realize his father was speaking to him again; his focus had been drawn back to the hands of his watch. "You, uh, want something to eat, Donnie? I don't know if you already ate, but there's some left over that's still somewhat warm and nothing that can't be reheated."

Food sounded good. "Yeah, Pop. That sounds good."

Alan retreated back through the swinging door, talking as he moved about. Don could hear parts of his speech as the door moved back and forth. "So, everything back to normal now? That man put away?"

"Yes. We've done our part. He's in the hands of the U.S. attorneys now. It's up to them to see that he gets put away." Though, with the statements provided by Garza and Garcia, along with the evidence, and the testimony from the two survivors, it shouldn't be too hard to find a jury that would give him the needle.

It was harder to hear as the door slowed in its swinging. Some words came out muted, but he was able to get the jest of the next question. "And, uh, the two survivors? That boy and Dr. Huntzberger."

"Keith Kelli is partially blind, but he'll live which is something in itself. Peyton is another deal entirely. Her problems are different from the kid's. It's hard to read her and tell what she's thinking. Given time she'll eventually be okay. I know that," he said, his wrist calling to him again.

_9:24. _Excluding delays of any kind or turbulence, she would be over the Rockies now, on her way to O'Hare. Her sudden decision to fly three thousand miles home had been explained as something that she needed to do. Not to get away from any of them, but to have a chance to be with her own family. If Don needed his he could drive the thirty minutes it took to Pasadena. With her she had to settle for the three hour time difference and a phone call. It was understandable and she had sworn that she was not staying, even going so far as to flash both him and Kathryn the return flight receipt. Plus, she'd also added to him, she was beginning to think that if she didn't go home, her father was going to hire somebody to bring her himself, and that she had assured him, was not something either of them wanted.

"Good. None of those kids deserved what happened to them. It's just hard to think that people like that still exist."

Don looked back up towards the table. Alan had finished with the reheating and had placed the plate at his usual spot when he did come to eat, and there next to it was a very cold and very refreshing looking beer, which was exactly what he needed after today. Actually it was exactly what he needed after the last six weeks.

"Yeah, well, they're still out there. It just means that there's one less now."

The chair slid back with ease against the wood, and he took his seat. Alan nodded once, acknowledging wearily that Don was right.

He ate, not surprised at how fast he did away with it. After all, he couldn't remember when he had eaten anything for breakfast, and he knew that no lunch had found him. His father, always a companion to talk just about anything with, spent the passing minutes that turned into hours with him. He was surprised at how much he had missed and listened with complete attention to catch up, laughing when Charlie or Millie had done something particularly funny.

His left wrist went unnoticed for that time, and in truth he didn't need to check it. Five days would pass quickly, and besides, he was sure that when Charlie came home, Don could ask him the probability that she was likely to die in a plane crash.

After all, what good was there in having a genius brother if you couldn't use them sometimes?

* * *

_Only two left to go. I decided to include another before the end. Next one includes flashbacks, and we are working towards that part SG. I promise._

_Meinhard: His story in this novel ends here. Logically, it is only reasonable to assume that a jury would find him guilty and convict him with the death penalty. He will possibly be mentioned again in the sequel. Actually, there is a very strong possibility of that. I just can't seem to get away from him. :)_

_Stupid Yellow Letters: The title stems from the fact that on the flak vests of the FBI and the vests sometimes worn by CSI's, both letters are in very bright, bold yellow. And, Garcia and Garza mistook Peyton's vest to say FBI during the press conference outside of the FBI office. Hence, the stupid yellow letters which resulted in her home invasion. _


	25. Back In Black

**Disclaimer: **Like I said last week. The fact that Liz was not featured was pure coincidence. Or so I would have you think.

**Author's Note:** Please explain to me, Oh Powers That Be at FF, why would you not let me post last night? If you weren't being incredibly slow, you were telling me that the format was not correct. Funny though, that this afternoon, you worked perfectly. You would think that after seven hours in the car to visit UVA you wouldn't do that to me. Simanis: Undying thanks! Anything in _italics_ is a flashback.

_Who doesn't love AC/DC?_

* * *

"_'Cause I'm back on the track…Well, I'm baaack, baaack…Well, I'm back in black"_

_-AC/DC-_

Perhaps coming in today had been a mistake she thought as her fingers slipped down and off the metal door handle. The door had opened with barely any strength required on her part, and it now rested against her back, the cold metal seeping through the fabric of her clothes. Fumbling with her left hand, she pulled it shut with a firm snap, but remained leaning against it.

The lights had already been turned on and her eyes surveyed the space in her office, taking in everything, noting every small detail. Her office remained the same as she had last left it. The deep red paint cast a warm ambience with the glossy blacks and mercurial silvers complementing the varying objects and reflecting the fluorescent lighting. Behind her desk was the Japanese katana, sheathed in a bright gold, brought back after a trip four years ago, and there towards the back were her numerous bookshelves filled with her bountiful collection. The books were passed over and the last thing before the circuit was complete was her interactive whiteboard, red digital ink still on the white surface, providing the notes from their last case. Red letters of the alphabet ran together in stylized handwriting- her own-, and the names of the victims glared out at her.

A sudden tightening of her lungs had her gasping for breath; the air felt as if it was squeezing in on all sides of her. Seconds later, as she snapped shut her eyes, and the noise of the air conditioning kicking on had her jumping, sending the messages from the front secretary and her Birkin along with all of its contents to the floor.

Chastising herself for allowing something as abstract as the purposeful arrangements of the twenty six letters of the alphabet spook her, Peyton forced her eyes to open themselves from their tightly squeezed position. The names greeted her again and she made herself stare at them. Only when control over the functions of her body had been restored did she then bend down and reach for her fallen belongings. Pink slips were swept into a neat pile, the spilled contents of her purse dropped to the bottom.

The free fingers of her left hand closed over the facedown BlackBerry and she picked it up off the tile; a continuingly flashing looped fragment relayed the fact that she had a voicemail in her box.

Straightening up and ignoring the sting in her right arm, Peyton accessed the message. It seemed that while in her session this morning, she had missed an early call from her father.

His voice, coming out punctuated with static due to the three thousand mile difference, made her smile. Five days had hardly been enough time to catch up, but despite the shortness of the visit, it had been worthwhile and much had been gained from it. She had enjoyed being able to sleep well past nine and to wear nothing but an old tattered pair of jeans with her frayed Redskins sweatshirt and hair thrown up carelessly on top of her head, not having to worry about anyone besides her father seeing her.

Late night movie watching had given them the chance to restate an old tradition of theirs, complete with the terrible impressions from both parties. On a more serious note, and the real reason behind her departure from the City of Angeles to The District, the conversations with her father had been tremendously helpful at healing her.

One of those conversations had breached the subject of extending her short five day visit to a more indefinite time frame:

_"It's a shame you weren't here for the blooming of the cherry blossoms."_

_Peyton walked alongside her father, good hand tucked into the pocket of her pants. The pebbles lining the encompassing pathway of the West Potomac Park scattered under their feet. The feeling was familiar and as she strolled she realized how much she did miss her home city. _

_Los Angeles had become her second home and she did love that city with its bright lights and exciting night life. But D.C. would always be her real home, and something about the sites and political atmosphere filled her when she returned. _

_Tourists, easy enough to spot by their open wonder at the memorials surrounding the pathway, moved around them, oblivious to the father and his daughter. One of her favorite past times as a teenager had been to come to The Mall area and watch the tourists; she would even admit to some that on a few occasions her and four other friends had given wrong directions just to see the look on the nonnatives' faces. _

_Smiling, she turned her head to look at her father as she walked. Catching her gaze, he too turned his head. Anyone who saw the two together could instantly realize the close relation. Damin Huntzberger, at fifty one and looking several years younger, was a tall man-it was still a mystery where the short gene had come from- with the same tawny blonde hair and piercing green eyes. As his daughter, she had inherited all of his physical traits, and also his mannerisms, not having another parent to imprint and learn from. _

_Peyton tucked a wayward strand of wind blown hair back behind her ear, nodding and saying, "I know. I haven't seen them in almost three years now."_

_Stopping, feet crunching on the small stones, he laughed and shook his head. He pointed over her shoulder at something, and she turned to see the white stone of the Jefferson Memorial across the tidal basin. "You used to love those trees. Every March I would take you over there. It had to be the Jefferson too. You didn't want to see them from The Mall or the Capitol. It had to be from the Jefferson," he said, smiling fondly at the memories._

_It was her turn to laugh and she brought her arms up to cross over her chest. "I remember. And I would pick up the fallen petals and put them on top of my head. And you told me not to because it would make me sneeze—"_

_"And what happened? You did sneeze. Ended up driving your nose insane," her father finished for her. _

_They continued on their way down the well known path, curving around towards the War World II Memorial. A breeze blew and stirred the hair on her shoulders. She closed her eyes and simply took in the sounds, once again making the comparisons to the city she lived in now and the one from her childhood; the bubbling of the pool's water, several cameras of the disposable kind snapping all at once, muted sounds of the cars from nearby streets that were hidden from the sacred area…_

_…And the sound of the ever constant planes flying in to Ronald Reagan International. That hadn't changed over the last eleven years. Every twenty seconds a plane flew into that airport it seemed. _

_"What are you thinking about, P?" _

_Sure enough, as she opened her eyes, there went a seven-thirty-seven bound for the northern landing terminal. _

_The massive, low flying airliner disappeared from sight, and Damin replaced her focus. "Just thinking about how early I have to get up tomorrow."_

_Never subtle, his idealized job as one of D.C.'s finest and most powerful attorneys had taken care of that, he stopped against one of the pillars out of the way of the rush of high school students, and performed the same act of crossing his arms across his chest. "You know, sweetheart, you don't have to go back."_

_The high school students were in wonder over the splashing pool. "Dad, we already talked about this. I have to go back at some point. Five days is good enough and plus I'm tired of sitting around doing nothing. I need a case. Something to keep my hands busy with."_

_Damin Huntzberger fixed her with her patented gaze that she had naturally learned from him. Already wary of what he was about to say by that look, her suspicions were confirmed. "I'm not talking about staying for a few more days. I'm talking about coming back."_

_This was new. "You mean move back here?" he didn't say anything and that in Damin Huntzberger terms meant a big, fat, obvious yes. "I can't. I'm needed back where I am. I have people there. I have a job there. People are counting on me."_

_He shifted his arms, quieting down as a couple walked past arm in arm, and then started over. "Los Angeles got along just fine before you were there, Peyton. It will do just fine without you. You could work for the Jeffersonian Institute here. Or, if you didn't want to leave the FBI, you could easily get an office at the lab here."_

_Peyton shook her head, incredulous at where he was coming from. Part of her knew he was only worried as all fathers were, but still… He had to know that she wouldn't do that. "And what about Kathryn? She followed me out there. What am I supposed to tell her? 'Oops. I've decided to move back home, so I guess you'll just have to pack up your things and come home with me too'?" _

_True to his job at being able to come back with any rebuttal, her father had an answer for that. "You know that Kathryn would move back here in an instant as soon as you said you were. You know that."_

_Her head shook from side to side, and Peyton looked out at the people of D.C. Move back here? True she loved this city more than anything, but it just wasn't possible at this point. Los Angeles had infected her for the last eleven years. Its citizens counted on her to do her job. She had friends there. And there was something back there she was willing to take a chance on if it still was an opportunity after her return. _

_"I can't, Dad. I won't make Kathryn move again. I've made a commitment to my office and I have people back there who have become parts of who I am. I can't leave all that. It's not because I don't want to be here with you. I would if I could," her words were said with conviction, but tinted with sadness. She didn't want to hurt her father._

_He sighed. "I figured as much. I just worry for you. I guess if I have you here, then I can watch over you and protect you better. I love you and as my duty as a parent, I'm bound to look after you. But, I also have to recognize what is best for you and if you truly believe that Los Angeles is where you belong, then I won't say anything else."_

_"Thank you, Daddy."_

_Uncrossing his arms, he eliminated the space between them and pulled her into a hug. After a moment, he leaned back, keeping one arm looped over her shoulders. A kiss was dropped onto the top of her hair, and he said while they walked the circle leading out of the memorial, "So, lunch over at the Capitol sound good? We can even stop by and say hello to our good old buddy Senator Nost. Lizzie told me he's not up to much today."_

True to his word, her father hadn't revisited the subject about moving again. He had helped her check her bags and then regretfully said his farewells at the gate, making her promise to call as soon as she arrived home.

The full onset of the migraine that had been building since her shower at eight flared up, banging away inside her skull at a suddenly more rapid pace. Explained as a result from the withdrawal her body was going through with the absence of ketamine, the doctor had said that the pain would eventually fade, and that the fact that the migraines were becoming less frequent and less intense showed promise. Until then she would have to settle for regular over the counter pain medication.

Since she had quit taking the Vicodin prescribed for her wrist that meant that Peyton would have to substitute them with four to five aspirins. The in-office bottle of pills hadn't been touched for weeks, and sitting in the chair, her fingers reached into the back of the top left drawer and seized upon the medium sized plastic object. Five little pills were swallowed by themselves, chased down without water.

Resting both elbows on the surface, she rubbed her temples in small circles in an attempt to dissuade the pulsing and throbbing of her veins. With barely open eyes, Peyton reached out and depressed the power button on the monitor, closing her eyes once she heard the familiar humming of the machine.

Peyton recalled her recent memory, linking it with what had happened before she had snuck in unnoticed.

Her father had not been the only one with doubts about what was best when considering her work. Therapy had forced an uncomfortable discussion this morning, leaving her with doubts about herself that she had thought had been laid to rest:

_"Good morning, Dr. Melonie," she sang out. Cheerfully, Peyton dropped into her now usual leather chair. Her purse was set aside, and while putting one leg over the other knee the muscles in her throat swallowed down a long drag from the still warm coffee._

_Dr. Melonie had been recommended by Dr. Funk and some digging done on her part had revealed that the relatively young psychiatrist was a highly reputable man with a specialty in dealing with cases like hers. _

_She had been skeptical at first as was only natural; however, after several sessions, his reputation had been found to be sound. Many of the last three days had been recalled in bits and fragments, enough for her to piece together the outline of what had happened. The filling on the inside still needed some work and the time line was a bit shaky, but for the most part she knew what had been done, and she most certainly could remember the faces. _

_Dr. Melonie closed the door, giving them some semblance of privacy from the other doctors and patients crowded in the receptionist's area. His narrow set hazel eyes pointedly looked at the cardboard cup she was sipping from. "Good morning to you too, Peyton. Did you take my recommendation?"_

_Peyton eyed him over the small sliver of steam rising from the tiny hole in the lid as he settled himself down in the chair opposite of her, notepad resting ominously on his thighs. "You mean your advice that since I won't cut out caffeine completely I should drink disgusting decaf instead?"_

_He nodded and clicked the end of his pen, looking down at his pad, writing utensil now poised at the ready._

_"Absolutely not."_

_Having quickly gotten used to her by now, the psychiatrist only shook his head, a small smile forming. Bemused, he changed the subject and formally started the session. "So, you arrived back home last night and judging by your exuberance displayed as you entered, I assume that you had no problems with your flight," he raised his head for the first time, looking directly at her. "How was your trip?"_

_She shrugged her shoulders. "Fine."_

_The pen moved. He made a humming noise in the back of his throat. "Just fine? In our last session, we decided that you going back to D.C. would be a chance for you to gain the support of your family that you couldn't get while here," he blinked at her before continuing," Damin Huntzberger is your living parent, I believe you told me. You were there for five days, and you're telling me that the time you spent with him was 'just fine'?"_

_Cautiously, Peyton straightened and considered what he was trying to get at before answering. "Well, yeah, I spent those five days with him, but it's not like we did anything extraordinary, unless you count watching the complete series of the Godfather. I mostly slept and spent the time relaxing."_

_Again the pen moved. "Uh-hunh. And did you talk with your father?"_

_"Of course we talked."_

_"I mean, did you talk about anything specific? Anything noteworthy? Anything __you__ want to talk about?" Dr. Melonie peered over the space at her, waiting for an answer._

_"Specific? What are you trying to get at? Are you trying to get me to say that we talked about what happened with me?"_

_He stopped moving the pen, pausing in mid thought. Sighing, he stated bluntly, "You're being passive aggressive again, attempting to play your game to get around answering my question, so that I will simply send you on your way with a referral that you are quote 'good to go'. Your evasiveness at both answering the question you know I am asking and the whole point of this session, is exemplary of what you exhibited your first day in my office. As I have to come to see, when you, Peyton, try to outwit someone into giving them a different answer than what they seek, it most almost always means that you actually have something that is bothering you."_

_"And I suppose your fancy degree taught you that?" she added, snarky now that this was not going the way she had wanted. Dr. Melonie had to sign off on the sheet declaring her mentally fit to return to work before the Director would allow her back. _

_Unfazed, he replied, "Yes it did. Now, you want to try again. What happened in D.C.?"_

_Perhaps unloading on the poor man could actually help, after all she did pay him several hundred dollars an hour to listen to her; she might as well use him. Not to mention, that the several hour long flight had been spent playing mediator between her id and ego. _

_"My father wants me to move back home," she fiddled with the wrist band of her watch, sliding it round and round. "He's concerned for me. For when I go back to work. He thinks I should move back there, so that I can take it easier."_

_"That sounds reasonable. Like you said I'm sure that he is just worried for how you are going to handle going back to your job. He sounds like any other loving parent."_

_"Yeah, I know."_

_He tilted his head to one side, and queried, "I know that since you returned you obviously declined his offer, but how did that make you feel to have him say that?"_

_"I was upset. I can't possible leave Los Angeles. Too many people count on me, and I have a good job. I hold a tremendous amount of weight and credit with where I am and what I do. So, yeah, I was upset that he would think that I needed to leave all of that behind," she faltered, sudden insight of the plane ride's debate beginning to make some sense, "But, I was also upset with myself. I hadn't thought that maybe—"_

_"He might be right?" _

_Peyton looked up at him. The psychiatrist looked back at her with a sad smile. "Yeah. I mean what if he is right? What if I can't handle it? What if it's too much?" she fired off the three questions, a hint of desperation in her voice as she clasped her hands over her knees and leaned forward. "What if I fail?"_

_"Would that be so bad?" he asked, calm despite her growing restlessness._

_Her voice rose in volume. "Of course it would. I don't handle failure very well, being as that I usually don't set myself up to fail very often. I don't think that I could deal with that."_

_"You very well might fail, Peyton. Nobody said that it wasn't going to be hard for you to go back to doing your job. Nobody expects you to jump straight back into it and be absolutely perfect. You faced a tremendous experience that stemmed from what you do. Obviously that is going to affect your work, and it's going to take some time before you get back to where you were," he finished, leading her into what he wanted next._

_After a moment she spoke again. "I know. I guess I would want it to be like that. To pretend like none of this ever happened, but it's not like that and it did happen. Despite that though, I do think that I'm ready to go back. I mean, I can't sit around…"_

_"I agree."_

_"…I can't sit around forever, hiding out. I have to come back at some point. Wait, what did you say?" Peyton halted in mid argument, ending her explanations as to why he should agree with her about going back to work._

_He laughed. "I said I agree too. I think you are ready to go back as well."_

_"You do?" She was confused, having expected a flat negative._

_Dr. Melonie nodded, laying his pen down for the first time. "I do. Ultimately, Peyton, you are the best judge for yourself. You know if you are ready to go back to work. Granted, if you had not come in here today and told me that you had doubts about yourself, I would have probably been more inclined to say that you needed more time until you figured that out."_

_"But you think that I can go back?" If he was lying she would waste her morning fix by throwing it in his face._

_"I do. It's going to be hard, but I have heard that you have friends that can act as a support network should you need it. I will sign your release," he held up a hand to forestall her thanks, "On two conditions. The first is that you will take it slow. That means I expect office work instead of field work. Yes, that means doing your office job of paperwork and budgets. Boring I know, but it will help you adjust and sort out any problems you do have. Second, I expect you to continue our sessions. I expect to see you every four days as we have been doing, and the first time you draw back into yourself like you did at the beginning, you can bet on it that I will immediately call the Director."_

So here she was, sitting behind her desk, head slowly killing her, and trying to sift through the seemingly endless amounts of paperwork that had accumulated to find something that remotely sounded interesting.

Peyton pursed her lips, chewing on the bottom one. Nixing the ones that were dull, she turned them over to save for another day. Like when she wanted to bore herself to death, or when she ultimately had to do them. The budget proposal for the new DNA equipment was due on the Supervisor's desk by the end of the week, but that would only require thirty minutes of her time. Mediating between a claim by the Internal Affairs office and the head medical examiner sounded just as dull as the quarterly audit that Washington wanted.

After a few more discarded folders, she finally came across something that was actually appealing. Deciding that it would take the longest amount of time, Peyton pulled off the paper clip and began scanning down the names. A position needed filling in the ballistics lab, and that would be interesting, seeing as that she had began her lab career with a unique passion for that area.

Settling down, each resume was scanned multiple times by her eyes. Every now and then Peyton would jot down a name to come back to later, and as she went on her migraine waned.

"It seems the rumors were true."

Dropping her pen in surprise at the unexpected voice, Peyton tore her eyes away from candidate number twelve, a twenty three year old from Dubuque.

"What rumors?" she asked, smiling at the person in her doorway.

Don grinned, shrugging his shoulders as he walked forward. Choosing the seat across from her desk, he sat before saying, "Oh, just that the Assistant Supervisor snuck in late this morning through the back basement stairwell in an attempt to get into her office undetected."

Number twelve from Dubuque was forgotten in favor of someone far more interesting to her. "It would seem that my plan didn't work out as well as I had hoped."

"Nah. The secretary just talks too much," the smile diminished somewhat, and he nodded towards her. "I see you're back. You doing okay?"

"I was cleared this morning, provided I agree to the stipulation to take it slow and remain in the office for a while. That means no field work for me. Only my chair and fluorescent lighting to keep me company."

The grin was back and oh how nice that smile was. Was there anyone whose eyes crinkled quite like that?

"Here. This might help," Don said, placing a white cup on the edge of her desk.

She reached out and her hand closed around the base, watching as he lifted an identical one to his lips. The strong aroma of finely grounded beans wafted through her nostrils.

Peyton grinned and took a sip. Fixing him with a look, she said her thanks, adding on something that he probably wouldn't understand and laughing when his face scrunched up in confusion.

"Now, my psychiatrist would be very upset with you."

* * *

_Sigh. See, it's sad that there is only one left to go. But, I did write a lovely piece about Colby and I posted that, and I also was inspired on my UVA trip to do a one shot college piece about the two Eppes brothers._

_Final Chapter: Entitled Somewhere Over The Rainbow._

_One question that I do ask: Do the songs do anything for you guys?_

_Background Information:_

_D.C.- Washington D.C. is perhaps one of my favorite cities of all time. It's beautiful and rich in history and culture. The atmosphere of politics is something that I thrive on and that is always there. The Cherry Blossoms do bloom in March; they are absolutely lovely to see. Highly recommend that to anyone. I prefer to see them from the north end of The Mall, where The Capitol building is. _


	26. Get Off Of My Back

**Disclaimer: **Obviously Numb3rs belongs to CBS, because if I owned it, then Gary Walker would guest star more often.

**Author's Note:** I've found a new hell that has taken over my time. They come in the disguise of thinly veiled promises and ambiguous prompts. They are called college applications. Damn them all. Much thanks to all of you who make me smile even when I'm filling out those forms.

* * *

"_Get off my back and into my game, Get out of my way and out of my brain, Get outta my face or give it your best shot"_

_-Bryan Adams-_

**Cubicle of Special Agent Colby Granger**

**Floor 14 of Los Angeles F.B.I. Office**

**Los Angeles, California**

**9:13 a.m.**

The simultaneous ringing of what seemed like every desk phone in the bullpen had him gritting his teeth and clenching his hands. Colby swore violently under his breath and attempted once again to regain his train of thought. Attempted was the key word. With everything that was going on around him and his team it was hard for him not to be annoyed when every five seconds something else broke his concentration.

Tired and irritated, Colby ran a hand through his hair and flipped the top corner of the open file, effectively turning the page. His eyes scanned down the list of parts for the car that had crashed into the coffee shop and its customers. Based upon the downstairs forensic analysis of the vehicle, the parts of the whole Civic were actually from many separate individual cars. That left him with the task of hunting down the supplier of the different sources; it would give them something to go on in hopes of tracking down the person who was really responsible for the accident.

Laughter and the annoying country voice that followed it saw him pause in his action of dialing out from the office. With a straight face and a raised eyebrow, Colby watched as Charlie ushered his engineering colleague towards the war room. Megan, he noticed, smiled, unknowingly encouraging the man's attempts at gaining her attention.

"You find anything, Colby?"

The sound of his boss's voice jolted him out of his people watching, and Colby turned his chair, the wheels sliding around. Holding tight to the phone and keeping it halfway between his ear and the cradle, he said, "Actually I did. The forensics detailed the car and found out that the parts are actually stripped from other ones."

Don nodded, tight lipped. "Good. You got a name or a number?"

Colby waggled the phone, the spiral cord trailing across his forearm. "Already on it."

His boss cast a look over the cubicle wall at the two professors on the other side of the glass walls, murmuring, "We could certainly use anything we can find until those two get whatever they're working on figured out. Said they ran into some problems with the weight of the impact or something."

"Well that's certainly no good."

Colby wheeled his chair again, seeing as Don turned who the new voice belonged to. Kathryn stood in the rectangle opening of his cubicle, hands clasped behind her back. The tall forensic scientist was looking especially nice today he noticed; the blue shirt brought out the red undertones in her hair and the grey in her eyes, and those black slacks hugged her legs in all the right places. If he could just get her alone for five minutes, then he might be able to finally ask her out to that new restaurant over off of Wilshire.

Don broke Colby's study of her when he huffed out, "Yeah, you're telling me."

Ever nice, Kathryn simply smiled and unclasped her hands, revealing a folded back folder. "Hey, now, I come bearing a gift. So be nice," she passed the folder along to Don's outstretched hand and Colby lifted himself up to read over his shoulder, "Paint deposits from a scrape match up to a make, model, and even a name. How's that for you?"

Don gave her one of his patented smiles, and Colby frowned inwardly. "Thanks, Kathryn," the boss looked up from his perusing, and continued on to ask, "Where's Peyton at? She might be able to help Charlie and Ray. Right now it's worth a shot."

Colby didn't like the frown that came over her face. A second later and he didn't like it when she let out an 'oh' either and exclaimed, "You haven't heard have you? The defense attorney that actually had the guts to take on the case moved the deposition to today instead of next Monday. She's downstairs in one of the conference rooms. We didn't know until five this morning. It's a dirty tactic if you ask me, but there's nothing we could do about it. It's now or she doesn't show at all."

And he most especially did not like the apprehension that came over both of their faces. Mostly because, he reasoned, Colby could feel it on his as well, knowing that their faces were a reflection of his.

* * *

**Conference Room One**

**Floor One of Los Angeles F.B.I. Office**

**Los Angeles, California**

**10:43 a.m.**

Timothy Bugure, collectively known as Tim, was a stout, balding man in his late forties. A defense attorney by definition, he had made his name in Los Angeles by snatching up high profile cases when no one else wanted to go within ten feet of them. The names he had earned and the curses that accompanied them for dealing with such heinous and often so guilty clients did not bother him. He rather enjoyed the attention, and, after all, someone had to do it.

His excitement at taking on cases like the Ackerman one explained his joy as he watched the two people across the room whispering quietly to one another; the man's head was bent down low so as to avoid any eavesdropping and every few seconds the man cast him a disparaging look over the witness's shoulder.

The witness herself was the main source of his excitement. Tim had no doubt in his mind that Meinhard Ackerman, his client, was guilty of every single one of the numerous charges that had been brought up against him. However, extensive they might be but it was still his job to serve him to the best of his abilities. Besides the witness today was as high profile as Los Angeles got when it came to its law enforcement.

The chance to take down the great Dr. Huntzberger herself was highly sought after, but rarely ever achieved. No defense attorney wanted Peyton Huntzberger to be called as an expert witness during their trial. The heralding of her name on the witness sheet signaled an immediate guilty no matter how stacked the odds might have been in your favor; it just wasn't happening after she took the stand. As an expert witness she was untouchable, and carried the nickname of the 'Ice Queen' given to her by defense attorneys because she refused to rise to any of their baits, remaining as cool as ice.

But with the Ackerman case it was different. She wasn't an expert witness this time. Drugged for the most part, Peyton Huntzberger was not a specialized doctor today. Today she was an emotional witness, here to represent the facts about what had happened to her, and as an emotional witness she was not the star of the U.S. attorney's line up. It still remained in question whether she was even going to make an appearance in court or not. That gave him this one shot at tearing her apart.

Sneakily moving the deposition to this morning instead of the already scheduled Monday afternoon had been a dirty and underhanded tactic that very often earned him those foul nicknames, but it was one that gave him a leg up. If she was unsettled, then Tim could dictate the rules of the game for today.

Unsettled she did appear to be as Tim watched from across the room. She shook her head at the U.S. attorney's words, curled hair sweeping violently from side to side across her back. Dr. Huntzberger was a pleasing looking woman, another thing that made her a threat to the defense. Juries loved to pay attention to nice looking people, and the scientific jargon seemed to register better when it came from a pretty face. She shook her head again, and the prosecuter sighed loudly, throwing his hands up into the air before moving away.

The opening and closing of the door kept Tim from moving closer to the pair in order to discover what they had been arguing about. All three snapped to attention, turning to face the young man who was their stenographer for this deposition. Tim grinned inwardly as he watched Dr. Huntzberger from the corner of his eyes. Her lips were set in a firm line and her hands grasped at the fabric of her black dress.

"Are both parties ready to proceed?" The stenographer looked at Tim, turning after a second to his opponent.

Tim looked at the prosecuting attorney as well. Seeing nothing that signaled any need for alarm, he returned his gaze to the young man, stating with a slight hint of arrogance to his words, "We are."

If he noticed anything about his tone, the man didn't respond. "Then if you will take your seat, Dr. Huntzberger, I'll swear you in."

-----------------------------------------

"I do."

She had never given a deposition before, and she found it to be rather nerve racking. Whenever she had been called in to court before, it was to deliver evidence and to provide a voice to explain what it was the jury was actually seeing. She had never been a lay witness. An expert witness yes, a general eyewitness no. She had found herself this nervous over a case either, and they weren't even in a courtroom. The deposition had been cleared to take place in the conference room downstairs in the FBI office; this particular one was usually reserved for when the Director himself visited.

"Does the prosecution have anything for direct?" The stenographer voiced, fingers poised over his instrument.

"I do," Rob answered. The United States Attorney that would be taking the case before the Supreme Court looked at her, waiting for some assurance that she was fine and ready to begin.

Peyton gave him a small nod from her place at the head of the shiny, oval wooden table.

"Then you may proceed," Unidentified stenographer man said.

"Dr. Huntzberger, you recognize that you are under oath today?"

"Yes," she answered, willing the formalities to be done with. Actually, she wanted to will this whole ordeal away.

"Can you please say your name, occupation, and address, spelling your last name?"

"My name is Peyton Huntzberger. H-U-N-T-Z-B-E-R-G-E-R. I am the Assistant Supervisor for the entire Los Angeles branch of the F.B.I. I live at 2150 Brentwood Park in Brentwood, Los Angeles."

Rob cleared his throat once, and then began his direct that they had rehearsed. "Dr. Huntzberger, what is your familiarity with the Meinhard Ackerman case?"

She didn't know where to look. Normally, the jury commanded her attention in court, but there was no jury today. Peyton finally settled for looking at Rob. "Almost three months ago I was asked to come and work as the Assistant Supervisor for the F.B.I.'s Los Angeles main branch. Before that I was the second in command for the Los Angeles Crime Lab. Two weeks after I began my job at the F.B.I. a body was discovered by a fisherman in the Harbor. We later found two other victims and discovered that all three were connected due to the repeated pattern of missing eyes and traces of methylene blue in their systems. The killer was attempting to change their eye colors with the injection of the dye."

"Where were you on Thursday, May the third?"

The quiet clack of the stenographer lulled her into an even trance. "I was at work. The day before we had found our third victim. Somehow a leak got out to the press, and I was asked to give a press conference to clean the mess up."

"And after that?"

"I went home…"

She could see everything all over again. _She was in her room, putting on a clean set of clothes after taking a shower. Now she was downstairs. Deep red liquid flowed into the crystal glass, lapping the sides as the level rose higher._ Her eyes closed, and the faces of the three men vanished to be replaced by her living room. Peyton was an outsider to this vision, merely an observer of the real Peyton who had stopped on the floor boards at Caesar's behavior.

"…I went home and took a shower. After that I went back into my room to change my clothes. I think I remember hearing something, but I didn't think anything of it. I can't exactly remember," _Had she heard something? _"I went downstairs to get a glass of wine. It was a Malbec from New Zealand. I had wanted something to drink after having to deal with all the press…"

She let out a soft laugh as she went on, "I remember thinking that I just wanted to get home so I could get to that bottle of wine. I left the kitchen with the glass in my hand. I went out into the hallway, where to I don't know. My cat," _There was Caesar, back arched, fur on end. Whiskers were spread wide to the sides and sharp teeth showed as he hissed,_ "My cat made me stop. I thought he was growling at me, but he wasn't. There was a noise or something and I turned around."

Blinking, Peyton struggled to regroup her thoughts. The memories were slightly jumbled. The stenographer had slowed, and looking up she could see that Rob, the unnamed stenographer, and Tim the Bastard, as she had now dubbed him, were watching her, expectant looks on their faces.

_Whistling. There had been a whistling sound. Not like someone whistling with their teeth. It had been more like a whoosh of air. _

A shaky breath was drawn in. "When I turned around there was a man behind me. He was big and Hispanic. He had a needle in his hand."

"What did you do then?" Rob prodded, remaining vague so as not to lead her into the answer that the prosecution wanted.

She shook her head. This was where things got blurry for a little while. "I threw my glass at him, and tried to get away. I had my service gun at one point, but there was another man as well. He grabbed me by my neck and stabbed me with a different needle. I don't remember anything more of that night."

Rob gave her a moment to collect herself before moving on again. "At that time did you recognize either of these two men?"

Her answer was more firm this time. "No. I had never seen them before. Their faces had not come up in the investigation." The two hired Hispanics had pleaded out to Rob in exchange for their testimony against Meinhard, but Peyton had never seen either of them again after that last night.

The prosecutor stared at her from across the table, eyes conveying the message that the next part was the most crucial for his case. Contrary to what some may think, all attorneys on some level used their witnesses to get what they needed. Rob, however nice he was, was no excuse. "Dr. Huntzberger, do you remember anything after that?"

"For the most part I was asleep or sedated. However, I have been able to remember what I saw when I was awake enough."

"And what were those parts?"

Strangely, the bastard defense attorney didn't object. What did she remember? _Ice blue eyes, blonde hair, and sneering lips curved to demand answers from her. Slender fingers tracing down her skin in what would be a lover's touch had it come from anyone but him. A boy. A boy with a chest that rose ever so slightly in his sleep, his beautiful brown eyes red rimmed and blue tinged. There had been a razor too. A slash left and then right. Blood, her own blood, running down her face, down her arms, hands, fingers, and everywhere. Then she was running. Running in a tunnel. A pipe. And then a scream._

"Do you need a moment, Dr. Huntzberger?"

Peyton blinked and looked up, dazed in what was a momentary stupor. A vibrating sensation against her legs caught her attention, and she was surprised to see that underneath the wooden table her hands were shaking. "No. I don't. I'm fine," she said to the stenographer, her voice as shaky as her hands.

He nodded and his hands hovered once more over his machine. "Then when you are ready to resume."

She waited until she could be sure her voice would come out even, not caring that only the words were recorded and not her voice too. "There…There was a man. He was German with blonde hair and blue eyes. I didn't see both of the two men from my house again. I just remember him. He kept me in a room, alone and cold. At one point he wanted me to help him in his experiment. He dragged me into a room where he had a boy. The boy was drugged under an anesthetic from what I could tell. He…He grew angry when I wouldn't tell him what he wanted, and I got away by cutting him with something off a table. After that I ran away. I remember someone calling my name and feeling my neck. It's all dark after that. The next thing I do remember is waking up in the hospital."

"What happened after you woke up in the hospital, Dr. Huntzberger?"

She locked eyes with Rob again. "When I woke up I couldn't remember anything. The doctors told me that I had what was called dissociative amnesia which is usually brought on by an emotional attack of some kind. They said that three days had passed. At that time I couldn't remember anything after driving home from work that Thursday."

"How did you regain your memories then?"

Rob had explained that it would be better to go ahead and mention that therapy had restored the memories in order to avoid looking like they were hiding it. "I've been in therapy with Dr. Chris Melonie. Through psychotherapy and a medicine called Pentothal I have been able to regain the majority of the memories over those three days."

"Do you know who the man was that kept you drugged for those three days?"

"Objection. Leading," the defense attorney called out from his seat across the table from Rob.

"I'll rephrase," Rob said.

"So noted." The stenographer clacked away.

Rob cast a look over at Tim the Bastard, before looking back at the head of the table. "Do you remember who was with you for those three days?"

Strangely, Tim didn't object again, and she thought that that was odd. Looking at Rob's face, she could see that he thought it was odd as well. Figuring that he wasn't going to object, she went on to answer, "Yes. Like I said, he was German and spoke German too. He had these ice cold blue eyes and pale blonde hair. He was tall. I later identified him for the F.B.I. His name is Meinhard Ackerman."

Rob shuffled the papers before him, and then looked over at the court reporter. "The prosecution has no further questions."

"So noted. Does the defense wish to cross examine this witness?" Peyton had to wonder who on Earth woke up one day and decided to become a stenographer. It seemed like the most boring job there was. All the guy did was type away at that odd little machine.

"Yes, I do."

And he had a very small bank from which to pull his dialogue from. Not a very conversationalist man was he. "Then you may proceed when ready."

She didn't have Rob to look at this time. Cross was the worst thing a witness had to endure. No matter how hard your attorney tried to prep you, it was still guaranteed that some questions were going to blind sight you. She had a sinking suspicion that Tim's reason for not objecting had to do with the fact that he had an ace up his sleeve. Peyton would just have to keep him from rattling her, she told herself.

"Dr. Huntzberger, you are a forensic doctor are you not?"

Here they went. Smiling, she answered with, "Yes."

Tim nodded and made a little note on his pad. "And carrying the title of a doctor you hold two PhDs, correct?"

"I do. I hold a doctorate degree in chemistry and science." Her eyes narrowed as she watched him, carefully trying to move two steps ahead of him.

"So it's safe to say that as doctor of science and with your experience in your line of work that you are pretty familiar with the human body and the effects of drugs." Tim's face remained neutral.

"It's safe to say that," she agreed.

"Ketamine is the drug that was used to keep you sedated. Can you tell me what ketamine does to the human body?"

So he was going to try and discredit her memories based upon the fact that she had been asleep and incapacitated for some part. "Ketamine is an anesthetic that in the past was used in medicine for surgerical procedures. Today it is more commonly used in veterinarian practices. It can be used as a drug to get high off of. Given the correct amount it acts as a dissociative anesthesia and can put someone to sleep, rendering them unconscious."

Tim would have been much more imposing if he could move around the room like he would if they were in court instead of the conference room. "You've just told us that you were kept unconscious and asleep for the most part of those three days. And now you want us to believe that under the influence of this _dissociative anesthetic_ you were able to remember my client's face and voice?"

Her father would be impressed with this man's attempt to unnerve her. Well, in all actuality, he would more than likely be laughing at Tim's horrible impression of a bad defense attorney from an old Law and Order rerun. Keeping that thought in her head, Peyton let the slightest hint of arrogance enter her voice as she responded, "I said I was asleep for most of the time, but that I do remember the times when I was awake. I remember the cold words as he asked me to help him dye a twenty year old boy's eyes blue. I remember the way he looked at me when I refused, seeing me as some type of filthy obtrusion to his goal. I remember that twenty year old lying on that table, and I remember the pride on his face as he looked down at that boy."

The defense attorney's lip twitched at her reply and he wisely recognized that she was only going to give him the same answer if he asked again. "You went to a Dr. Christopher Melonie shortly after you were discharged from the hospital, did you not?"

"I did."

"You went to see him to begin therapy after your experience?"

"Yes. Dr. Melonie was recommended to me by my doctors at Cedars Sinai. He specializes in cases involving dissociative amnesia." She waited for the obvious question that was coming.

"How does that exactly work? Do you two just talk or does he put you in a trance?" The bad Law and Order attorney was back.

Again she took a few seconds to formulate her reply in her mind, ensuring that it would come out just right. "You'd have to ask Dr. Melonie about that. Psychotherapy for lost memories is a practiced science and has been proven to be highly accurate. Regained memories are considered to be just as reliable as ordinary memories."

Rob gave her a small smile and she relished when the man's lips opposite from him twitched again. There was nothing else he could really ask now. She couldn't think of anything that would further help his side…

"Dr. Huntzberger, you work with a Special Agent Don Eppes?"

Both her and Rob straightened in their seats, alert once again. This had not been foreseen. Don was Tim's ace.

The stenographer stared at her, waiting for her answer. There was no way she could avoid the question, and she reluctantly said, "Yes."

Tim's lips weren't twitching anymore. They were twisted in a triumphant grin. "Of course you do. You work with him. In fact that's one of the reasons behind why you came to work with the F.B.I. But you don't just work with him do you? He's been keeping you company for the last two weeks. Now, I'm sure it's just to ensure that you are doing okay, but visiting you hours after my client was arrested and two days before you positively identified him with your regained memories? That doesn't sound very professional to me, now does it?"

How the hell had he found out about that? Rob's face told her that he was just as mystefied as she was. "If you're trying to insinuate that Agent Eppes broke protocol by releasing information, then you're wrong," she shot out before Rob had a chance to object.

"Who's there to say that he didn't? You don't have anyone but yourself to say that he didn't. How are supposed to believe that hours after my client's arrest, Special Agent Eppes didn't tell you his name in order to supplant a memory that would work out in his favor." Tim was positively demonically grinning now.

Her voice oozed ice and calmly withheld anger as she answered the only way she could. "I can't, but I would think that the word of two unblemished outstanding law enforcement officers would be enough. Agent Eppes is a dedicated special agent with no record of misconduct. And as for me, if you want to say that I broke the rules after eleven years of following them, then I suggest you take it back or I'll see you before the Internal Affairs board," she growled out, throwing her solid reputation in his face.

The smile faded from the bastard's face and he was at a loss for words. He blinked several times, opening his mouth and then closing it again. Now he just resembled a fish.

After a few minutes of silence, unnamed stenographer spoke up to formally ask, "Do you have any further questions for this witness?"

Peyton stared at the defense attorney, daring him with her eyes to ask another question. He finally broke the gaze and dejectedly told the court official, "No. I have no further questions for Dr. Huntzberger."

Never missing a beat, Peyton watched as the stenographer turned to Rob. "Does the prosecution wish to re-direct?"

Rob gave her a wink. "No, sir."

"Then we are finished here. The court would like to thank you for each of your time and especially yours, Dr. Huntzberger."

When she was finally alone, the stenographer having packed his machine away, Rob giving her an encouraging pat and thanks, and the defense attorney simply leaving with the only amount of dignity he had left, Peyton finally let out a collective sigh. This part was over.

Easing herself out of the leather chair, she flipped the lights off as she left, closing the door behind her. The keys to the Porsche dangled from her fingers, their touches lending a jingling music to her walk.

There was one more place she had left on her list, and only then she could really move on.

* * *

_I have decided that since this became so long that I am going to have one more chapter with the final scene. My wonderful Newgal has dubbed it the 'Eppelogue'. :) Can anyone figure out the last thing that she feels she has to do? Cookies to the person who does. _

_Background Information:_

Deposition: A deposition is evidence given under oath and recorded for a later use. In the U.S. a deposition takes place outside of a courtroom in certain well defined circumstances. In a criminal procedure, depositions are taken to preserve the testimony of a witness. A deposition can also be entered into evidence during trial if a witness to the crime is not going to be called to trial. There is a direct and then a cross examination if the other party so wishes to do so. Objections can be raised in a deposition despite the fact that a judge is not there to rule over it. The objection is still recorded by the stenographer or court recorder. Most of the time objections are used in order to object to the form of the question or to warn a witness of how they should respond to the question. Some depositions can take hours; obviously I cannot portray that hours went by, so we can assume that Peyton's did. Also, the tactic of moving a deposition to 'surprise' the other party is a tactic that is used and I have personally seen it done. Not a very nice thing to do, but useful to unnerve your opponent. 


	27. Taking Chances

**Disclaimer: **All rights to Numb3rs belongs to CBS and the owners. I made no money from this.

_All things must come to an end. A'sN at the end. Hidden shoutout to Newgal. Shows my loving thanks, and it's toward the bottom. _

_Repeat of reflections like the prologue._

_

* * *

__That which doesn't kill us only makes us stronger._

_No one really knows where this saying originated from, but its mysterious origin certainly does not deter anyone from tossing it around and using it for almost any situation. Just like when someone asks you "Are you hurt?" right after you fall down a flight of stairs, this saying can become quite annoying._

_Proffering the wisdom that since you didn't die from whatever tragedy you went through, you'll become a harder and stronger person because of it doesn't magically wish everything away. Neither does it make everything okay._

_But I digress. My real problem behind this saying is the pitying tone that seems to accompany it when someone says it. Maybe they don't mean it, but it still comes out that way with their false words and sorrowful gazes. _

_Perhaps the better way to put it, would be to say "that which doesn't kill us only makes us stronger" eventually. Eventually being the operative word in that sentence. With time, the repetition of what becomes your mantra, and several sessions with a therapist, we can become stronger. _

_Ultimately you only have two choices: you can lie there, wallow in self pity and admit defeat, or you can get back up and begin the long arduous task of piecing your life back together. Nobody ever said life was easy or fair. You have to work to get what you want._

_Everyone has experienced an event of some kind that has made them stronger. Some have gone through more than others, but the fact remains the same that there are very few who escaped from life's curveballs. We're all blind sighted at some point. _

_Take my friend Kathryn for example. She's the one person that has been with me for my entire life, not counting my father. Now, she didn't ask to be a child of six. The Nost family, devout Catholics as they are, consist of Senator Nost of Maryland himself, his wonderful wife Elizabeth, four sons, and two daughters. Like I said, Kathryn didn't ask for such a large family, but what are you going to do? It's not like the decision was left up to her._

_So as Kathryn and her one older brother got older, the two of them were often pushed aside for the younger ones. The twins took up a substantial amount of Mama Nost's time after they were born._

_However, not once did Kathryn complain. Not one single day out of her eighteen years did she complain when her parents passed her over for one of her younger siblings. And when we graduated in 1990, Kathryn didn't even blink when her parents announced the soon to be arrival of their sixth and final child, never saying a word when we came home from winter break to find that her old room had been converted to make way for the youngest Nost. _

_Growing up with that family and seeing the time that had been unequally spread around makes me almost happy that I'm an only child. _

_Another prime example is my teammate Titus, the fiber analysis guy for my forensic team. When I first picked Titus out of a group of thirty three potential new recruits five years ago, I spent most of my time sighing in exasperation at his back worldliness and his very deep Southern accent. The fact that he talked about hunting deer and other woodland creatures didn't help. _

_I found Titus through a friend of mine whose governmental source I cannot disclose. All I need to say on the subject of his origins is that Titus comes from a little town called Tupelo in Mississippi and if it wasn't for me the poor boy would still be back there with his little high school hunting buddies, probably drinking beer and shooting Bambi on the weekend._

_Take a first glance at Titus and you wouldn't think life had done anything to him except give him the bad graces to be born in the deep South, making it damn near impossible to understand much of what he says when you're not familiar with Southern speaking people. _

_I too didn't think life had been cruel to Titus, until about a year after I hired him. Turns out that Titus's mother remarried after the death of his father. And we can say "yea!" all we want for his mother to have moved on and to have found love again, except for the fact that she just so happened to fall in love with a raging alcoholic. That's just a homemade recipe for disaster right there._

_Also, Titus hadn't originally planned on becoming a forensic scientist. Further discovery on my part found that my newly acquired trace expert had set his heart on becoming a chemistry professor. Except for the fact that one night while he was away at college, studying in his second year as an undergraduate, his new stepfather had a little bit too much to drink that night, came home, and proceeded to beat his mother to death. _

_Titus's sudden change in career came when an extremely lucky and happen chance lack of evidence allowed for his now murdering stepfather to get away and escape. So Titus picked himself up, buried his mother in true Mississippi fashion, and returned to school three weeks later, making a pit stop at the office of admissions to change his major. _

_There are other people that I have met over the years that have faced life's curveballs too. Some have been through experiences as bad as Titus's, and others have been through smaller scale instances like Kathryn's, smaller when compared to a son burying his mother. I've met people who have grown up in the shadows of a genius sibling, having to carve their own name out of life, people who have been the victims of crimes, and people who have faced far worse demons. My job forces me into contact with these types of people every day._

_And I've had my fair share of challenges too._

_For the most part I've lived a pretty good life, and up until now I didn't have much to complain about. I come from the long standing Huntzberger family, rumored to date back all the way to the beginnings of the Holy Roman Empire; whether that's true or not remains a mystery to me, personally I don't really see the connection. The Huntzberger family is old money, and continues to remain one of the wealthiest old families on the Eastern seaboard._

_I was born into this family, the daughter of Damin Huntzberger and granddaughter of Sebastian Huntzberger. Growing up I didn't have much to want for. I went to the finest prep school in D.C. and was guaranteed a spot in one of the Ivy Leagues, though it was my fifteen year old mind that won over my acceptance. _

_Flash forward thirty two years later, and I now live in a historic townhouse in the neighborhood of Brentwood, drive a German imported sports car, and work as the Assistant Supervisor of the F.B.I. crime lab here in Los Angeles. My work is something that I love._

_That's not to say that just because I was and still am the heiress to the Huntzberger fortune (not that I will get anything more than what exists in my trust fund until all three Huntzberger's die, including my father), that I had an easy childhood. It's not easy to grow up without a mother. It's no walk in the park to graduate high school at fifteen, surrounded by seventeen and eighteen year olds. And it's certainly not easy to go against your socialist grandparents and tell them that instead of becoming a prominent attorney or some other noble profession that you are going to become a forensic scientist and work for the government on their pay roll. That was the great Selfish, Un-Grateful P. Huntzberger vs. Always Right, Old Fashioned Grandparents case of '93. _

_But my point to all of this is not to spout off about how woe is all of us on this Earth. _

_It's all good and fine to learn from your experiences and struggles, and we certainly need to have a strong backbone to take on those curveballs._

_But at what point do we become too strong? _

_How long do we harden our hearts and outer shells until there's nothing left for anyone to relate to, until we become a ghost of what we used to be?_

_I've always been an independent person. Born and raised that way, as the Huntzberger's are a proud and defiant breed, I've always been able to get back up after having been knocked to the ground._

_Not this time though. Meinhard Ackerman smacked me down hard and I lay there for a long time, bleeding and broken. When I finally did manage to pick myself up again and dust off the wounds, I drew into myself, locking away my pain and problems. _

_I didn't manage to get away with that for long. Somehow he managed to find the key and work out what I couldn't. I believe I've mentioned him before, something along the lines that Don Eppes is a man that doesn't take no for an answer, doesn't take to being ignored, and is not a man that needs to be ignored. Well he didn't exactly take no for an answer when I said that I didn't want to talk about it._

_Turns out that was the best for all of us._

_When do we become too strong? I'm still not exactly sure. It varies from person to person._

_I do know that my kidnapping by a deranged, psychotic, sociopathic, Aryan changed me in several ways. Yes, it made me strong, but it also made me strong by allowing others to be strong for me. We can't do it all in this world, and we especially can't do it all alone._

_When did I become too strong? I'd like to think that I haven't reached that point yet. If there is one thing that I learned from my ordeal is that while I laid there on that ground, broken and shattered, there were hands waiting to lift me back up. I didn't have to be strong at that point. I could let others help me._

_So I did. I, Peyton Huntzberger, leaned just a little bit to the left and let him, Don Eppes, be strong for me. _

_Turns out that was the best thing that I've done in a long time._

_--------------------------------------------------------_

_Now I've never been one who's much for history. All those dates and names had been far too confusing to keep up with. There had been way more interesting things to occupy my time with instead of homework with the likes of George Washington and Upton Sinclair, like baseball and girls. _

_However, out of all of my classes in my high school career, I would have to say the easiest one had been my eleventh grade United States History class. The A that I had received had been a mystery to both me and Mom and Dad, seeing as how I had barely passed my World Cultures and Humanities class the previous year._

_The source of that A has remained a mystery. There are several possibilities to explain why I managed to shine in that one class. It could have been my teacher who actually cared about where her students were going in life. It could have been the fact that my usual gang of baseball friends weren't in there with me to create mayhem with, a popular theory supported by my father. Or it could have been something else entirely._

_But my point is that even though I was not one for history, I found an interest in that particular class that year. My teacher, a Mrs. O'dell, had a thing for sneaking in sayings by famous figures from our country's history. She especially enjoyed the Roosevelts, Teddy and Franklin alike. _

_Over the years I've had a tendency to forget some of my days spent in high school, but have held onto the baseball and the typical ones that you just don't ever forget. That's just how things work. Plus all those tactical courses at Quantico pushed the tenth grade English out._

_Among the baseball games, dates, and moments with my genius kid brother, I do remember Mrs. O'dell and her sayings, often used in an attempt to inspire us to something greater. Like I said, she had a thing for the Roosevelts, and her favorite saying was "One's philosophy is not best expressed in words; it is expressed in the choices one makes…and the choices we make are ultimately our responsibility." _

_Don't ask why to this day, twenty years later, I remember that quote, but can't find it in me to recall what a derivative is or what the 'Lock and Key' theory is. I just do._

_Anyway, Mrs. O'dell would quote those two lines by Eleanor Roosevelt every time we became upset about a pop quiz or an essay to do over the weekend, complaining because it just wasn't fair to have to do that and have it cut into our partying or shopping time. Shopping was the girls' excuse, not mine. _

_Mrs. O'dell would only give us that young, bright smile of hers and tell us that our choices decided our futures. Back then we simply rolled our eyes, but did the essay anyway, usually that Sunday night after having spent our Saturday doing what we wanted to._

_Now I don't quite roll my eyes anymore. With age comes wisdom. That's something my father would say. Just as she said twenty years ago, the choices we make decide our future, and like Eleanor Roosevelt said "…the choices we make are ultimately our responsibility."_

_That doesn't mean we always make the right choices. Was it right to drop the atomic bomb on Hiroshima? Was it right to become involved in the Vietnam War? Was it right when the Europeans stole this land from the Native Americans who had been here first? They may not always be right in everyone's eyes, but those choices are our responsibility._

_The world does not exist in black and white. There are many shades of grey. That much I have seen._

_I made the choice all those years ago to have fun with my buddies instead of doing my work that Saturday, something I don't regret. The decision to trade my bat in for a nice service pistol had been mine alone, and protecting people everyday is something I too have no doubts about._

_Some would say that to make the choice to stay with a recently kidnapped, traumatized, and hurt woman would not necessarily be the right one. Some would say the right thing to do would be to cut your losses and get out while you still could. _

_But I've never been one to run from a person who needs me. I was there for my little kid brother when the bullies tried to get him. I was there for my mother as she died, and I was there to take her place holding the remains of our family together when she was gone. I'm there for my team, and I'm there for the people of my country when they need me._

_And so when some would have made the decision to cut and run, I, Don Eppes, made the choice to stay with her, Peyton Huntzberger._

_Maybe it was because I simply like her, have come to enjoy having her around, and am willing to take a chance on something that I want. Maybe it was because in a way she reminds me of my brother, with the way that her whole being becomes charges as she excitedly explains her job, explanation complete with every forensic term known._

_Maybe it was a combination of a bunch of things. _

_But I do know that she needed me._

_And I've never been one to turn my back on someone who needs me. _

* * *

"_And maybe it's not meant to last, But what do you say to taking chances?, What do you say to jumping off the edge? Never knowing if there's solid ground below"_

_-Celine Dion-_

The loose gravel rocks littered across the paved road scattered under his feet as Don came to a stop, his eyes finally alighting on what he had been looking for. Or rather whom he had been looking for.

It hadn't been an extremely daunting task to find her. Contrary to what others believed, she was not an enigma shrouded in mystery and could be very predictable if you knew how to go about it. All he'd had to do was put himself in her head and shoes— like any other agent who put themselves into the minds of their suspects— and after that it had been pretty easy for him.

The slight wind rustled the leaves of the trees that shared this area of land with the numerous stone slabs; they were all lined up in long rows, stretching out across the many acres for as far as he could see. Don didn't move, content to stay in his spot for the moment, the small rocks skidding forward as his foot scuffed back and forth.

Kathryn, as soon as she had heard, had passed along the message that the deposition had ended after three long hours. By the time Don had managed to catch a small break from their car crash case and had left the bullpen for the lab, she had already fled the building.

Marilyn, the ever helpful secretary, didn't know her whereabouts, explaining that the doctor had only come downstairs long enough to grab something out of her office and then leave. No one else could say where their boss had taken off to either, all of them giving him a quick sideways shake of their heads as they hurried on their way.

A smile had seen to the unlocking of the office door. His Holy Grail, so to speak, had been located after a few minutes spent reading the papers resting on the very top of her desk; she was a highly organized person, he had long since discovered, which made his task of finding things much easier.

Moving left to right towards the desk phone, the torn scrap of paper with today's date and an address circled in bright red had all but jumped into his hand. That scrap address had narrowed his list of possible locations considerably.

Before he had come to his spot here at the circled location, he and Colby had set out to _speak_ with their latest suspect. The talk had ended with the two of them nabbing the guy for further discussion back at the office. Leaving Colby to take him back, Don had taken a detour on the way to this wide open cemetery on the outskirts of Santa Monica.

Putting one foot before the other, Don decided he was done staying in his spot. Mindful of the dead and their final resting places, he carefully made his way around and through the rows, moving towards the one that he wanted and the woman standing in front of it.

The tombstone where she stood was one that had been placed beneath the branches of a tall, old tree. Remaining quiet, Don finally stopped when he was right next to her, shoulder to shoulder. Peyton didn't say a word but he knew that she was aware of the fact that she was no longer alone.

From the corner of his eyes he glanced at her, noting that her eyes were downcast and fixated upon the grave. Following her lead, he read the name embossed in black. '**David Elium**' stared back up at him.

"I see you found me," she said, breaking the still silence with her voice.

Don shifted on his feet, his hands shoving themselves down into his pockets as both continued to look down instead of turning to each other. "Yeah. Marilyn let me into your office, and I found the address. Figured you might want someone. How did you get out here anyway?"

"Thanks. For everything. Keith Kelli was here. He wanted to come to see David; turns out that Keith was brought in when David was gotten rid of, and he remembers seeing him. I've been meaning to come out here myself, and Keith didn't want to come alone. You just missed him. He left a little while ago." Her head finally rose, and she changed her gaze to the tree branches overhead.

"So how were you planning on getting back?" He asked humorously.

She finally turned her body to face him. Don watched as she crossed her arms, noting that the cast had been replaced with a soft black brace that blended in with the black of her dress. Peyton blinked once, and the said, "I hadn't thought about that. Good thing you're here now."

He nodded and smiled, and then changed to a more somber tone. "How is he?"

"Who? Keith?," her eyes shifted to look quickly at David, "He's doing better. He doesn't have any family to talk to so I've made myself if he needs it. He's got eye surgery at the end of week."

The cry of a bird came from over head and a cloud passed over the sun, giving them a break if only for a minute. "I thought he couldn't afford the LASIK that would be needed."

She nodded, and took a step back. "He couldn't, but I can. It's the least I can do for him. He didn't deserve what happened to him. Just like David doesn't deserve to be underneath us. None of them deserved what happened to them."

"There was nothing that you did wrong. You did your job," Don said, reaching out to lay a hand on her elbow.

Peyton smiled at him sadly. "I know, but a part of me will always feel responsible for what happened to them. It's my job to find people like Meinhard Ackerman, and I didn't find him."

This was a different statement from when she had fully blamed herself entirely. Her admittance now didn't worry him much. In their jobs you always deep down did blame yourself for some small part, no matter how many times you were told that there was nothing that you did wrong or could have done better. It just was how it was.

She had stepped back, and was moving away now. Don spared David one last glance, nodded, and then stepped in alongside her. "How are you?" He asked, really inquiring about the hearing from the morning.

Catching on to what he really wanted, she answered, "Okay. It wasn't that bad. I expected the emotions that would come from remembering what happened, and it took a few minutes, but I just worked through them. The defense attorney asked me about you at the end."

"What for?"

A small bark of a laugh was let out into the air. They were on the road that led back to the main one now. "He tried to say that since you had been spending time with me that that was a breach of conduct. He also insinuated that my memories of Meinhard were false because you visited me the night he was taken into custody and that when you were with me you told me about him, creating my memories for me so that you could get the guy that you wanted."

Don cast a look of disbelief at her, saying as she nodded at him, "Are you serious?"

"Uh-hunh. He did. I told him that no such thing happened, and if he wanted to press the issue further he could take it before the Board of Internal Affairs. That seemed to shut him up."

His Suburban loomed in front of them, parked to the side of the main road from which the one they were walking on branched off from. Suddenly she stopped, and Peyton whirled around to face him. He stopped, seeing the look on her face and thinking that something was wrong.

The SUV was behind her, and just as he had sent the little pieces of gravel skidding, her heels did the same. Peyton took in a slow breath and let it out before speaking. "I meant what I said earlier. I am really grateful for what you have done. Everything that you have done…"

Where was she going with this?

"…You, against all logic and human normalcy, stuck with me when anyone else would have probably left…"

Don stared at her, wondering why she was fidgeting and looking anywhere but at him.

"…I had time to think about things in D.C…"

That never sounded good.

"…And I understand if you want nothing to do with me after all of this. I really do. I don't blame you or anything at all. A normal person wouldn't—"

He effectively cut her off as he moved forward, lightly grasped her shoulders, and kissed her. She froze, and when he pulled back those green eyes were wide and blinking, her mouth parted.

"Are you sure because—"

Don cut her off again, and after a second she relaxed in his arms, kissing him back. This time when he regretfully ended it, her eyes glittered and smiled.

"I suppose I shouldn't bring that subject up anymore. Though, it certainly does have its advantages."

He grinned at her, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "Oh, I don't know. We could certainly revisit it later."

"Later? How about now?" Peyton smiled, a slow grin spreading across her face as she leaned onto his shoulder.

From above came a cry from the same bird. Don watched as it swooped down and glided over the hood of the Suburban to land in one of the trees. Looking behind him one last time, he saw the tree of David's final resting place wave at him, branches swaying ever so slightly.

His arm tightened around her shoulders. She looked up at him, laying her head back down after he didn't speak.

No doubt something would come up as soon as they arrived back at the office. And there was no doubt in his mind that something would come up right after they closed this case.

But for now he was content to simply walk back towards his car with one arm slung across the woman against him. Whatever happened later was what happened later.

Now was now. And what was happening now was just fine with him. Later could wait. Just for this one time.

* * *

_Can I ask for one last time?_

_Special thanks to everyone who has read this. Huge thanks to everyone who has reviewed! Huge thanks to those who added this to their favorites. This was my first story, and I owe much thanks for the support and advice I have gotten along the way._

_Due to my college applications, I will be taking the next two weeks off to finish those. I think that it is only fair to me and to you guys as the readers. However, I have a six chapter (episode) arc that I am working on and will do in that time. That way I have something to keep the muse going._

_The sequel to this is tentatively called Woke Up This Morning. And once my applications are done, I will be returning to work on the sequel. I want to get several chapters into it before I begin posting, and it is going to require a lot of background information and research. I want to get it right, and that is what it is going to take._

_Once again, much thanks. Couldn't have done this without all of you._


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